THE 
PRELIMINARIES 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE   PRELIMINARIES 
AND  OTHER  STORIES 


THE 

PRELIMINARIES 

And  Other  Stories 

BY 

CORNELIA  A.  P.  COMER 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

Ctie  Cuiicrdi&r  press  Cambridge 

1912 


COPYRIGHT,   1912,  BY  CORNELIA  A.  P.  COMER 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  September  iqi2 


FS 

C  v^ 

u 

CONTENTS 

THE  PRELIMINARIES i 

THE  LONG  INHERITANCE     ...     51 
CLARISSA'S  OWN  CHILD  .    .    .    .127 


THE   PRELIMINARIES 


THE   PRELIMINARIES 

I 

YOUNG  Oliver  Pickersgill  was 
in  love  with  Peter  Lannithorne's 
daughter.  Peter  Lannithorne  was  serv 
ing  a  six-year  term  in  the  penitentiary 
for  embezzlement. 

It  seemed  to  Ollie  that  there  was 
only  one  right-minded  way  of  looking 
at  these  basal  facts  of  his  situation. 
But  this  simple  view  of  the  matter  was 
destined  to  receive  several  shocks  in 
the  course  of  his  negotiations  for  Ruth 
Lannithorne's  hand.  I  say  negotiations 
advisedly.  Most  young  men  in  love 
have  only  to  secure  the  consent  of  the 
girl  and  find  enough  money  to  go  to 
housekeeping.  It  is  quite  otherwise 
when  you  wish  to  marry  into  a  royal 


4  THE   PRELIMINARIES 

family,  or  to  ally  yourself  with  a  crimi 
nal's  daughter.  The  preliminaries  are 
more  complicated. 

Ollie  thought  a  man  ought  to  marry 
the  girl  he  loves,  and  prejudices  be 
hanged !  In  the  deeps  of  his  soul,  he 
probably  knew  this  to  be  the  magnani 
mous,  manly  attitude,  but  certainly 
there  was  no  condescension  in  his  out 
ward  bearing  when  he  asked  Ruth 
Lannithorne  to  be  his  wife.  Yet  she 
turned  on  him  fiercely,  bristling  with 
pride  and  tense  with  overwrought 
nerves. 

"  I  will  never  marry  any  one,"  she 
declared,  "who  doesn't  respect  my 
father  as  I  do ! " 

If  Oliver's  jaw  fell,  it  is  hardly  sur 
prising.  He  had  expected  her  to  say 
she  would  never  marry  into  a  family 
where  she  was  not  welcome.  He  had 
planned  to  get  around  the  natural  ob- 


THE    PRELIMINARIES  5 

jections  of  his  parents  somehow  —  the 
details  of  this  were  vague  in  his  mind 
-  and  then  he  meant  to  reassure  her 
warmly,  and  tell  her  that  personal 
merit  was  the  only  thing  that  counted 
with  him  or  his.  He  may  have  visual 
ized  himself  as  wiping  away  her  tears 
and  gently  raising  her  to  share  the 
safe  social  pedestal  whereon  the  Pick- 
ersgills  were  firmly  planted.  The  young 
do  have  these  visions  not  infrequently. 
But  to  be  asked  to  respect  Peter  Lan- 
nithorne,  about  whom  he  knew  prac 
tically  nothing  save  his  present  ad 
dress  ! 

"  I  don't  remember  that  I  ever  saw 
your  father,  Ruth,"  he  faltered. 

"  He  was  the  best  man,"  said  the 
girl  excitedly,  "  the  kindest,  the  most 
indulgent — that 's  another  thing,  Ollie. 
I  will  never  marry  an  indulgent  man, 
nor  one  who  will  let  his  wife  manage 


6  THE   PRELIMINARIES 

him.  If  it  had  n't  been  for  mother  — " 
She  broke  off  abruptly. 

Ollie  tried  to  look  sympathetic  and 
not  too  intelligent.  He  had  heard  that 
Mrs.  Lannithorne  was  considered  dif 
ficult. 

"  I  ought  n't  to  say  it,  but  can't  ex 
plain  father  unless  I  do.  Mother 
nagged ;  she  wanted  more  money  than 
there  was ;  she  made  him  feel  her  ill 
nesses,  and  our  failings,  and  the  over 
done  beefsteak,  and  the  underdone 
bread,  - —  everything  that  went  wrong, 
always,  was  his  fault.  His  fault  —  be 
cause  he  did  n't  make  more  money. 
We  were  on  the  edge  of  things,  and 
she  wanted  to  be  in  the  middle,  as  she 
was  used  to  being.  Of  course,  she  really 
has  n't  been  well,  but  I  think  it 's 
mostly  nerves,"  said  Ruth,  with  the 
terrible  hardness  of  the  young.  "  Any 
how,  she  might  just  as  well  have  stuck 


THE   PRELIMINARIES  7 

knives  into  him  as  to  say  the  things 
she  did.  It  hurt  him  —  like  knives.  I 
could  see  him  wince  —  and  try  harder 
—  and  get  discouraged — and  then,  at 
last  —  "  The  girl  burst  into  a  passion 
of  tears. 

Oliver  tried  to  soothe  her.  Secretly 
he  was  appalled  at  these  squalid  re 
velations  of  discordant  family  life.  The 
domestic  affairs  of  the  Pickersgills  ran 
smoothly,  in  affluence  and  peace. 
Oliver  had  never  listened  to  a  nagging 
woman  in  his  life.  He  had  an  idea  that 
such  phenomena  were  confined  to  the 
lower  classes. 

"  Don't  you  care  for  me  at  all, 
Ruth?" 

The  girl  crumpled  her  wet  handker 
chief.  "  Ollie,  you  're  the  most  beauti 
ful  thing  that  ever  happened  —  ex 
cept  my  father.  He  was  beautiful,  too ; 
indeed,  indeed,  he  was.  I  '11  never 


8  THE   PRELIMINARIES 

think  differently.  I  can't.  He  tried  so 
hard." 

All  the  latent  manliness  in  the  boy 
came  to  the  surface  and  showed  itself. 

"  Ruth,  darling,  I  don't  want  you  to 
think  differently.  It's  right  for  you 
to  be  loyal  and  feel  as  you  do.  You 
see,  you  know,  and  the  world  doesn't. 
I  '11  take  what  you  say  and  do  as  you 
wish.  You  must  n't  think  I  'm  on  the 
other  side.  I  'm  not.  I  'm  on  your  side, 
wherever  that  is.  When  the  time 
comes  I  '11  show  you.  You  may  trust 
me,  Ruth." 

He  was  eager,  pleading,  earnest. 
He  looked  at  the  moment  so  good,  so 
loving  and  sincere,  that  the  girl,  out  of 
her  darker  experience  of  life,  wondered 
wistfully  if  it  were  really  true  that  Pro 
vidence  ever  let  people  just  live  their 
lives  out  like  that — being  good,  and 
prosperous,  and  generous,  advancing 


THE   PRELIMINARIES  9 

from  happiness  to  happiness,  instead 
of  stubbing  along  painfully  as  she  felt 
she  had  done,  from  one  bitter  experi 
ence  to  another,  learning  to  live  by 
failures. 

It  must  be  beautiful  to  learn  from 
successes  instead,  as  it  seemed  to  her 
Oliver  had  done.  How  could  any  one 
refuse  to  share  such  a  radiant  life  when 
it  was  offered  ?  As  for  loving  Oliver, 
that  was  a  foregone  conclusion.  Still, 
she  hesitated. 

"  You  're  awfully  dear  and  good  to 
me,  Ollie,"  she  said.  "  But  I  want  you 
to  see  father.  I  want  you  to  go  and 
talk  to  him  about  this,  and  know  him 
for  yourself.  I  know  I  'm  asking  a  hard 
thing  of  you,  but,  truly,  I  believe  it's 
best.  If  he  says  it 's  all  right  for  me  to 
marry  you,  I  will —  if  your  family  want 
me,  of  course,"  she  added  as  an  after 
thought. 


io         THE   PRELIMINARIES 

"  Ought  n't  I  to  speak  to  your  mo 
ther?"  hesitated  Oliver. 

"  Oh,  —  mother  ?  Yes,  I  suppose 
she  'd  like  it,"  said  Ruth  absent-mind 
edly.  "  Mother  has  views  about  getting 
married,  Ollie.  I  dare  say  she  '11  want 
to  tell  you  what  they  are.  You  must  n't 
think  they're  my  views,  though." 

"  I  'd  rather  hear  yours,  Ruth." 

She  flashed  a  look  at  him  that  opened 
for  him  the  heavenly  deeps  that  lie  be 
fore  the  young  and  the  loving,  and  he 
had  a  sudden  vision  of  their  life  as  a 
long  sunlit  road,  winding  uphill,  wind 
ing  down,  but  sunlit  always  —  because 
looks  like  that  illumine  any  dusk. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  my  views  —  some  day," 
Ruth  said  softly.  "  But  first—" 

"  First  I  must  talk  to  my  father,  your 
mother,  your  father."  Oliver  checked 
them  off  on  his  fingers.  "  Three  of 
them.  Seems  to  me  that's  a  lot  of 


THE    PRELIMINARIES          n 

folks  to  consult  about  a  thing  that 
does  n't  really  concern  anybody  but 
you  and  me! " 

II 

AFTER  the  fashion  of  self-absorbed 
youth,  Oliver  had  never  noticed  Mrs. 
Lannithorne  especially.  She  had  been 
to  him  simply  a  sallow  little  figure  in 
the  background  of  Ruth's  vivid  young 
life ;  some  one  to  be  spoken  to  very 
politely,  but  otherwise  of  no  particular 
moment. 

If  his  marital  negotiations  did  no 
thing  else  for  him,  they  were  at  least 
opening  his  eyes  to  the  significance 
of  the  personalities  of  older  people. 

The  things  Ruth  said  about  her 
mother  had  prepared  him  to  find  that 
lady  querulous  and  difficult,  but  essen 
tially  negligible.  Face  to  face  with 
Mrs.  Lannithorne,  he  had  a  very  dif- 


12          THE   PRELIMINARIES 

ferent  impression.  She  received  him 
in  the  upstairs  sitting-room  to  which 
her  semi-invalid  habits  usually  confined 
her.  Wrapped  in  a  white  wool  shawl 
and  lying  in  a  long  Canton  lounging- 
chair  by  a  sunshiny  window,  she  put 
out  a  chilly  hand  in  greeting,  and 
asked  the  young  man  to  be  seated. 

Oliver,  scanning  her  countenance, 
received  an  unexpected  impression  of 
dignity.  She  was  thin  and  nervous, 
with  big  dark  eyes  peering  out  of  a 
pale,  narrow  face;  she  might  be  a 
woman  with  a  grievance,  but  he  ap 
prehended  something  beyond  mere 
fretfulness  in  the  discontent  of  her  ex 
pression.  There  was  suffering  and 
thought  in  her  face,  and  even  when  the 
former  is  exaggerated  and  the  latter 
erroneous,  these  are  impressive  things. 

"  Mrs.  Lannithorne,  have  you  any 
objection  to  letting  Ruth  marry  me  ? " 


THE    PRELIMINARIES          13 

"  Mr.  Pickersgill,  what  are  your 
qualifications  for  the  care  of  a  wife 
and  family?" 

Oliver  hesitated.  "Why,  about  what 
anybody's  are,  I  think,"  he  said,  and 
was  immediately  conscious  of  the  fee 
bleness  of  this  response.  "  I  mean,"  he 
added,  flushing  to  the  roots  of  his  blond 
hair,  "  that  my  prospects  in  life  are  fair. 
I  am  in  my  father's  office,  you  know. 
I  am  to  have  a  small  share  in  the  busi 
ness  next  year.  I  need  n't  tell  you  that 
the  firm  is  a  good  one.  If  you  want  to 
know  about  my  qualifications  as  a  law 
yer —  why,  I  can  refer  you  to  people 
who  can  tell  you  if  they  think  I  am 
promising." 

"  Do  your  family  approve  of  this 
marriage?" 

"  I  have  n't  talked  to  them  about  it 
yet." 

'Have  you  ever  saved  any  money 


14          THE   PRELIMINARIES 

of  your  own  earning,  or  have  you  any 
property  in  your  own  name?" 

Oliver  thought  guiltily  of  his  bank 
account,  which  had  a  surprising  way 
of  proving,  when  balanced,  to  be  less 
than  he  expected. 

"Well,  — not  exactly." 

"  In  other  words,  then,  Mr.  Pickers- 
gill,  you  are  a  young  and  absolutely 
untried  man ;  you  are  in  your  father's 
employ  and  practically  at  his  mercy ; 
you  propose  a  great  change  in  your 
life  of  which  you  do  not  know  that 
he  approves;  you  have  no  resources 
of  your  own,  and  you  are  not  even 
sure  of  your  earning  capacity  if  your 
father's  backing  were  withdrawn.  In 
these  circumstances  you  plan  to  dou 
ble  your  expenses  and  assume  the 
whole  responsibility  of  another  per 
son's  life,  comfort,  and  happiness. 
Do  you  think  that  you  have  shown 


THE   PRELIMINARIES          15 

me  that  your  qualifications  are  ade 
quate  ? " 

All  this  was  more  than  a  little  dis 
concerting.  Oliver  was  used  to  being 
accepted  as  old  Pickersgill's  only  son 
—  which  meant  a  cheerfully  accorded 
background  of  eminence,  ability,  and 
comfortable  wealth.  It  had  not  occur 
red  to  him  to  detach  himself  from  that 
background  and  see  how  he  looked 
when  separated  from  it.  He  felt  a  lit 
tle  angry,  and  also  a  little  ashamed  of 
the  fact  that  he  did  not  bulk  larger  as 
a  personage,  apart  from  his  environ 
ment.  Nevertheless,  he  answered  her 
question  honestly. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Lannithorne,  I  don't 
think  that  I  have." 

She  did  not  appear  to  rejoice  in  his 
discomfiture.  She  even  seemed  a  lit 
tle  sorry  for  it,  but  she  went  on 
quietly :  — 


16         THE   PRELIMINARIES 

"  Don't  think  I  am  trying  to  prove 
that  you  are  the  most  ineligible  young 
man  in  the  city.  But  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  that  a  man  should  stand  on 
his  own  feet,  and  firmly,  before  he  un 
dertakes  to  look  after  other  lives  than 
his  own.  Otherwise  there  is  nothing 
but  misery  for  the  women  and  chil 
dren  who  depend  upon  him.  It  is  a 
serious  business,  getting  married." 

"  I  begin  to  think  it  is,"  muttered 
Oliver  blankly. 

"  I  don't  want  my  daughters  to 
marry,"  said  Mrs.  Lannithorne.  "  The 
life  is  a  thousand  times  harder  than 
that  of  the  self-supporting  woman  — 
harder  work,  fewer  rewards,  less  en 
joyment,  less  security.  That  is  true 
even  of  an  ordinarily  happy  marriage. 
And  if  they  are  not  happy  —  oh,  the 
bitterness  of  them !  " 

She  was  speaking  rapidly  now,  with 


THE   PRELIMINARIES          17 

energy,  almost  with  anguish.  Oliver, 
red  in  the  face,  subdued,  but  eager  to 
refute  her  out  of  the  depths  and 
heights  of  his  inexperience,  held  him 
self  rigidly  still  and  listened. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  that  epigram 
of  Disraeli  —  that  all  men  should 
marry,  but  no  women  ?  That  is  what 
I  believe!  At  least,  if  women  must 
marry,  let  others  do  it,  not  my  chil 
dren,  not  my  little  girls  !  —  It  is  curi 
ous,  but  that  is  how  we  always  think 
of  them.  When  they  are  grown  they 
are  often  uncongenial.  My  daughter 
Ruth  does  not  love  me  deeply,  nor  am 
I  greatly  drawn  to  her  now,  as  an  in 
dividual,  a  personality,  —  but  Ruth 
was  such  a  dear  baby !  I  can't  bear  to 
have  her  suffer." 

Oliver  started  to  protest,  hesitated, 
bit  his  lip,  and  subsided.  After  all,  did 
he  dare  say  that  his  wife  would  never 


i8         THE   PRELIMINARIES 

suffer?  The  woman  opposite  looked 
at  him  with  hostile,  accusing  eyes,  as 
if  he  incarnated  in  his  youthful  person 
all  the  futile  masculinity  in  the  world. 
"  Do  you  think  a  woman  who  has 
suffered  willingly  gives  her  children 
over  to  the  same  fate  ?  "  she  demanded 
passionately.  "I  wish  I  could  make 
you  see  it  for  five  minutes  as  I  see  it, 
you,  young,  careless,  foolish.  Why, 
you  know  nothing,  —  nothing !  Listen 
to  me.  The  woman  who  marries  gives 
up  everything :  or  at  least  jeopardizes 
everything:  her  youth,  her  health,  her 
life  perhaps,  certainly  her  individuality. 
She  acquires  the  permanent  possibil 
ity  of  self-sacrifice.  She  does  it  gladly, 
but  she  does  not  know  what  she  is  do 
ing.  In  return,  is  it  too  much  to  ask 
that  she  be  assured  a  roof  over  her 
head,  food  to  her  mouth,  clothes  to 
her  body?  How  many  men  marry 


THE   PRELIMINARIES          19 

without  being  sure  that  they  have  even 
so  much  to  offer?  You  yourself,  of 
what  are  you  sure  ?  Is  your  arm  strong  ? 
Is  your  heart  loyal  ?  Can  you  shelter 
her  soul  as  well  as  her  body?  I  know 
your  father  has  money.  Perhaps  you 
can  care  for  her  creature  needs,  but 
that  is  n't  all.  For  some  women  life  is 
one  long  affront,  one  slow  humiliation. 
How  do  I  know  you  are  not  like  that  ? " 

"Because  I'm  not,  that's  all!"  said 
Oliver  Pickersgill  abruptly,  getting  to 
his  feet. 

He  felt  badgered,  baited,  indignant, 
yet  he  could  not  tell  this  frail,  excited 
woman  what  he  thought.  There  were 
things  one  did  n't  say,  although  Mrs. 
Lannithorne  seemed  to  ignore  the  fact. 
She  went  on  ignoring  it. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  thinking,"  she 
said,  "  that  I  would  regard  these  mat 
ters  differently  if  I  had  married  an- 


20          THE   PRELIMINARIES 

other  man.  That  is  not  wholly  true. 
It  is  because  Peter  Lannithorne  was 
a  good  man  at  heart,  and  tried  to  play 
the  man's  part  as  well  as  he  knew  how, 
and  because  it  was  partly  my  own 
fault  that  he  failed  so  miserably,  that 
I  have  thought  of  it  all  so  much.  And 
the  end  of  all  my  thinking  is  that  I 
don't  want  my  daughters  to  marry." 

Oliver  was  white  now,  and  a  little 
unsteady.  He  was  also  confused.  There 
was  the  note  of  truth  in  what  she  said, 
but  he  felt  that  she  said  it  with  too 
much  excitement,  with  too  great  facil 
ity.  He  had  the  justified  masculine 
distrust  of  feminine  fluency  as  hyster 
ical.  Nothing  so  presented  could  carry 
full  conviction.  And  he  felt  physically 
bruised  and  battered,  as  if  he  had  been 
beaten  with  actual  rods  instead  of 
stinging  words ;  but  he  was  not  yet 
defeated. 


THE   PRELIMINARIES          21 

"  Mrs.  Lannithorne,  what  do  you 
wish  me  to  understand  from  all  this? 
Do  you  forbid  Ruth  and  me  to  marry 
—  is  that  it?" 

She  looked  at  him  dubiously.  She 
felt  so  fiercely  the  things  she  had 
been  saying  that  she  could  not  feel 
them  continuously.  She,  too,  was  ex 
hausted. 

Oliver  Pickersgill  had  a  fine  head, 
candid  eyes,  a  firm  chin,  strong  capable 
hands.  He  was  young,  and  the  young 
know  nothing,  but  it  might  be  that 
there  was  the  making  of  a  man  in  him. 
If  Ruth  must  marry,  perhaps  him  as 
well  as  another.  But  she  did  not  trust 
her  own  judgment,  even  of  such  hands, 
such  eyes,  and  such  a  chin.  Oh,  if  the 
girls  would  only  believe  her,  if  they 
would  only  be  content  to  trust  the  wis 
dom  she  had  distilled  from  the  bitter 
ness  of  life !  But  the  young  know  no- 


22          THE   PRELIMINARIES 

thing,  and  believe  only  the  lying  voices 
in  their  own  hearts ! 

"  I  wish  you  would  see  Ruth's  father," 
she  said  suddenly.  "  I  am  prejudiced. 
I  ought  not  to  have  to  deal  with  these 
questions.  I  tell  you,  I  pray  Heaven 
none  of  them  may  marry  —  ever ;  but, 
just  the  same,  they  will !  Go  ask  Peter 
Lannithorne  if  he  thinks  his  daughter 
Ruth  has  a  fighting  chance  for  happi 
ness  as  your  wife.  Let  him  settle  it.  I 
have  told  you  what  I  think.  I  am 
done." 

"I  shall  be  very  glad  to  talk  with 
Ruth's  father  about  the  matter,"  said 
Oliver  with  a  certain  emphasis  on  fa 
ther.  "  Perhaps  he  and  I  shall  be  able 
to  understand  each  other  better.  Good 
morning,  Mrs.  Lannithorne ! " 


THE   PRELIMINARIES         23 
III 

OLIVER  PICKERSGILL  SENIOR  turned 
his  swivel-chair  about,  bit  hard  on  the 
end  of  his  cigar,  and  stared  at  his  only 
son. 

"What's  that?"  he  said  abruptly, 
"  Say  that  again." 

Oliver  Junior  winced,  not  so  much 
at  the  words  as  at  his  father's  face. 

"I  want  to  marry  Ruth  Lannithorne," 
he  repeated  steadily. 

There  was  a  silence.  The  elder  Pick- 
ersgill  looked  at  his  son  long  and  hard 
from  under  lowered  brows.  Oliver  had 
never  seen  his  father  look  at  him  like 
that  before :  as  if  he  were  a  rank  out 
sider,  some  detached  person  whose  do 
ings  were  to  be  scrutinized  coldly  and 
critically,  and  judged  on  their  merits. 
It  is  a  hard  hour  for  a  beloved  child 
when  he  first  sees  that  look  in  hereto- 


24          THE   PRELIMINARIES 

fore  indulgent  parental  eyes.  Young 
Oliver  felt  a  weight  at  his  heart,  but 
he  sat  the  straighter,  and  did  not  flinch 
before  the  appraising  glance. 

"  So  you  want  to  marry  Peter  Lan- 
nithorne's  daughter,  do  you?  Well, 
now,  what  is  there  in  the  idea  of  marry 
ing  a  jail-bird's  child  that  you  find 
especially  attractive  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  might  say  that  I've  seen 
something  of  business  men  in  this  town, 
Ross,  say,  and  Worcester,  and  Jim 
Stone,  and  that,  if  it  came  to  a  choice 
between  their  methods  and  Lanni- 
thorne's,  his  were  the  squarer,  for  he 
settled  up,  and  is  paying  the  price  be 
sides.  But  I  don't  know  that  there's 
any  use  saying  that.  I  don't  want  to 
marry  any  of  their  daughters  —  and 
you  wouldn't  want  me  to.  You  know 
what  Ruth  Lannithorne  is  as  well  as  I 
do.  If  there's  a  girl  in  town  that's  finer- 


THE   PRELIMINARIES          25 

grained,  or  smarter,  or  prettier,  I  'd  like 
to  have  you  point  her  out!  And  she  has 
a  sense  of  honor  like  a  man's.  I  don't 
know  another  girl  like  her  in  that.  She 
knows  what 's  fair,"  said  the  young  man. 

Mr.  Pickersgill's  face  relaxed  a  little. 
Oliver  was  making  a  good  argument 
withnomushiness  about  it,  and  he  had 
a  long-settled  habit  of  appreciating 
Ollie's  arguments. 

"She  knows  what's  fair,  does  she? 
Then  what  does  she  say  about  marry 
ing  you?" 

"She  says  she  won't  marry  anybody 
who  doesn't  respect  her  father  as  she 
does!" 

At  this  the  parent  grinned  a  little, 
grimly  it  is  true,  but  appreciatively. 
He  looked  past  Oliver's  handsome,  boy 
ish  head,  out  of  the  window,  and  was 
silent  for  a  time.  When  he  spoke,  it 
was  gravely,  not  angrily. 


26          THE   PRELIMINARIES 

"  Oliver,  you  're  young.  The  things 
I  'm  as  sure  of  as  two  and  two,  you  don't 
yet  believe  at  all.  Probably  you  won't 
believe  'em  if  I  put  them  to  you,  but 
it's  up  to  me  to  do  it.  Understand, 
I  'm  not  getting  angry  and  doing  the 
heavy  father  over  this.  I  'm  just  telling 
you  how  some  things  are  in  this  world, 
—  facts,  like  gravitation  and  atmos 
pheric  pressure.  Ruth  Lannithorne  is 
a  good  girl,  I  don't  doubt.  This  world 
is  chuck  full  of  good  girls.  It  makes 
some  difference  which  one  of  'em  you 
marry,  but  not  nearly  so  much  dif 
ference  as  you  think  it  does.  What 
matters,  from  forty  on,  for  the  rest  of 
your  life,  is  the  kind  of  inheritance 
you've  given  your  children.  You  don't 
know  it  yet,  but  the  thing  that 's  laid 
on  men  and  women  to  do  is  to  give 
their  children  as  good  an  inheritance 
as  they  can.  Take  it  from  me  that  this 


THE   PRELIMINARIES          27 

is  gospel  truth,  can't  you?  Your  mo 
ther  and  I  have  done  the  best  we  can  for 
you  and  your  sisters.  You  come  from 
good  stock,  and  by  that  I  mean  honest 
blood.  You  've  got  to  pass  it  on  untaint 
ed.  Now — hold  on  !"  he  held  up  a  warn 
ing  hand  as  Oliver  was  about  to  inter 
rupt  hotly.  "  Wait  till  I  'm  through  - 
and  then  think  it  over.  I  'm  not  say 
ing  that  Peter  Lannithorne's  blood 
is  n't  as  good  as  much  that  passes  for 
untainted,  or  that  Ruth  isn't  a  fine 
girl.  I'm  only  telling  you  this:  when 
first  you  look  into  your  son's  face, 
every  failing  of  your  own  will  rise  up 
to  haunt  you  because  you  will  wish  for 
nothing  on  God's  earth  so  much  as  that 
that  boy  shall  have  a  fair  show  in  life 
and  be  a  better  man  than  you.  You 
will  thank  Heaven  for  every  good  thing 
you  know  of  in  your  blood  and  in  your 
wife's,  and  you  will  regret  every  mean- 


28          THE   PRELIMINARIES 

ness,  every  weakness,  that  he  may  in 
herit,  more  than  you  knew  it  was  in 
you  to  regret  anything.  Do  you  sup 
pose  when  that  hour  comes  to  you  that 
you'll  want  to  remember  his  grand 
father  was  a  convict?  How  will  you 
face  that  down  ? " 

Young  Oliver's  face  was  pale.  He 
had  never  thought  of  things  like  this. 
He  made  no  response  for  a  while.  At 
last  he  asked, — 

"  What  kind  of  a  man  is  Peter  Lan- 
nithorne  ? " 

"Eh?  What  kind  of— ?  Oh,  well, 
as  men  go,  there  have  been  worse  ones. 
You  know  how  he  came  to  get  sent  up. 
He  speculated,  and  he  borrowed  some 
of  another  man's  money  without  ask 
ing,  for  twenty-four  hours,  to  protect 
his  speculation.  He  didn't  lose  it, 
either!  There  's  a  point  where  his  case 
differs  from  most.  He  pulled  the  thing 


THE   PRELIMINARIES          29 

off  and  made  enough  to  keep  his  fam 
ily  going  in  decept  comfort,  and  he 
paid  the  other  money  back;  but  they 
concluded  to  make  an  example  of  him, 
so  they  sent  him  up.  It  was  just,  yes, 
and  he  said  so  himself.  At  the  same 
time  there  are  a  great  many  more  dis 
honest  men  out  of  prison  than  Peter 
Lannithorne,  though  he  is  in  it.  I  meet 
'em  every  day,  and  I  ought  to  know. 
But  that's  not  the  point.  As  you  said 
yourself,  you  don't  want  to  marry  their 
daughters.  Heaven  forbid  that  you 
should!  You  want  to  marry  his  daugh 
ter.  And  he  was  weak.  He  was  tempted 
and  fell,  —  and  got  found  out.  He  is  a 
convict,  and  the  taint  sticks.  The  Lord 
knows  why  the  stain  of  unsuccessful 
dishonesty  should  stick  longer  than 
the  stain  of  successful  dishonesty.  I 
don't.  But  we  know  it  does.  That  is 
the  way  things  are.  Why  not  marry 
where  there  is  no  taint  ?  " 


30          THE   PRELIMINARIES 

"Father—?" 

"  Yes,  Ollie." 

"  Father,  see  here.  He  was  weak  and 
gave  way  —  once!  Are  there  any  men 
in  the  world  who  have  n't  given  way 
at  least  once  about  something  or  other? 
—  are  there,  father  ?  " 

There  was  a  note  of  anguish  in  the 
boy's  voice.  Perhaps  he  was  being 
pushed  too  far.  Oliver  Pickersgill 
Senior  cleared  his  throat,  paused,  and 
at  last  answered  sombrely,  — 

"  God  knows,  Ollie.  I  don't.  I  won't 
say  there  are." 

"Well,  then— " 

"See  here!"  his  father  interrupted 
sharply.  "Of  course  I  see  your  argu 
ment.  I  won't  meet  it.  I  shan't  try. 
It  doesn't  change  my  mind  even  if  it 
is  a  good  argument.  We'll  never  get 
anywhere,  arguing  along  those  lines. 
I'll  propose  something  else.  Suppose 


THE   PRELIMINARIES          31 

you  go  ask  Peter  Lannithorne  whether 
you  shall  marry  his  daughter  or  not. 
Yes,  ask  him.  He  knows  what's  what 
as  well  as  the  next  man.  Ask  Peter 
Lannithorne  what  a  man  wants  in  the 
family  of  the  woman  he  marries." 

There  was  a  note  of  finality  in  the 
older  man's  voice.  Ollie  recognized  it 
drearily.  All  roads  led  to  Lannithorne, 
it  seemed.  He  rose,  oppressed  with  the 
sense  that  henceforward  life  was  going 
to  be  full  of  unforeseen  problems;  that 
things  which,  from  afar,  looked  simple, 
and  easy,  and  happy,  were  going  to 
prove  quite  otherwise.  Mrs.  Lanni 
thorne  had  angered  rather  than  fright 
ened  him,  and  he  had  held  his  own 
with  her,  but  this  was  his  very  own 
father  who  was  piling  the  load  on  his 
shoulders  and  filling  his  heart  with 
terror  of  the  future.  What  was  it,  after 
all,  this  adventure  of  the  married  life 


32          THE   PRELIMINARIES 

whereof  these  seasoned  travelers  spoke 
so  dubiously?  Could  it  really  be  that 
it  was  not  the  divine  thing  it  seemed 
when  he  and  Ruth  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes? 

He  crossed  the  floor  dejectedly,  with 
the  step  of  an  older  man,  but  at  the 
door  he  shook  himself  and  looked 
back. 

"Say,  dad!" 

"  Yes,  Ollie." 

"  Everybody  is  so  terribly  depress 
ing  about  this  thing,  it  almost  scares 
me.  Aren't  there  really  any  happy 
times  for  married  people,  ever?  You 
and  Mrs.  Lannithorne  make  me  feel 
there  are  n't ;  but  somehow  I  have  a 
hunch  that  Ruth  and  I  know  best ! 
Own  up  now!  Are  you  and  mother 
miserable  ?  You  never  looked  it !  " 

His  father  surveyed  him  with  an  ex 
pression  too  wistful  to  be  complacent. 


THE   PRELIMINARIES          33 

Ah,  those  broad  young  shoulders  that 
must  be  fitted  to  the  yoke !  Yet  for 
what  other  end  was  their  strength 
given  them  ?  Each  man  must  take  his 
turn. 

"  It's  not  a  soft  snap.  I  don't  know 
anything  worth  while  that  is.  But  there 
are  compensations.  You'll  see  what 
some  of  them  are  when  your  boys  be 
gin  to  grow  up." 

IV 

ACROSS  Oliver's  young  joy  fell  the 
shadow  of  fear.  If,  as  his  heart  told 
him,  there  was  nothing  to  be  afraid  of, 
why  were  his  elders  thus  cautious  and 
terrified  ?  He  felt  himself  affected  by 
their  alarms  all  the  more  potently  be 
cause  his  understanding  of  them  was 
vague.  He  groped  his  way  in  fog.  How 
much  ought  he  to  be  influenced  by 


34          THE    PRELIMINARIES 

Mrs.  Lannithorne's  passionate  protests 
and  his  father's  stern  warnings  ?  He 
realized  all  at  once  that  the  admoni 
tory  attitude  of  age  to  youth  is  rooted 
deep  in  immortal  necessity.  Like  most 
lads,  he  had  never  thought  of  it  before 
save  as  an  unpleasant  parental  habit. 
But  fear  changes  the  point  of  view,  and 
Oliver  had  begun  to  be  afraid. 

Then  again,  before  him  loomed  the 
prospect  of  his  interview  with  Peter 
Lannithorne.  This  was  a  very  concrete 
unpleasantness.  Hang  it  all !  Ruth  was 
worth  any  amount  of  trouble,  but  still 
it  was  a  tough  thing  to  have  to  go  down 
to  the  state  capital  and  seek  one's  fu 
ture  father-in-law  in  his  present  board 
ing-place!  One  oughtn't  to  have  to 
plough  through  that  particular  kind  of 
difficulty  on  such  an  errand.  Dimly 
he  felt  that  the  path  to  the  Most  Beau 
tiful  should  be  rose-lined  and  soft  to 


THE   PRELIMINARIES          35 

the  feet  of  the  approaching  bridegroom. 
But,  apparently,  that  was  n't  the  way 
such  paths  were  laid  out.  He  resented 
this  bitterly,  but  he  set  his  jaws  and 
proceeded  to  make  his  arrangements. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  compass  the 
necessary  interview.  He  knew  a  man 
who  knew  the  warden  intimately.  It 
was  quickly  arranged  that  he  was  to 
see  Peter  Lannithorne  in  the  prison 
library,  quite  by  himself. 

Oliver  dragged  himself  to  that  con 
ference  by  the  sheer  strength  of  his 
developing  will.  Every  fibre  of  his  be 
ing  seemed  to  protest  and  hold  back. 
Consequently  he  was  not  in  the  hap 
piest  imaginable  temper  for  important 
conversation. 

The  prison  library  was  a  long,  nar 
row  room,  with  bookcases  to  the  ceil 
ing  on  one  side  and  windows  to  the 
ceiling  on  the  other.  There  were  red 


36          THE   PRELIMINARIES 

geraniums  on  brackets  up  the  sides  of 
the  windows,  and  a  canary's  cage  on 
a  hook  gave  the  place  a  false  air  of  do 
mesticity,  contradicted  by  the  barred 
sash.  Beneath,  there  was  a  window-seat, 
and  here  Oliver  Pickersgill  awaited 
Lannithorne's  coming. 

Ollie  did  not  know  what  he  expected 
the  man  to  be  like,  but  his  irritated 
nerves  were  prepared  to  resent  and 
dislike  him,  whatever  he  might  prove. 
He  held  himself  rigidly  as  he  waited, 
and  he  could  feel  the  muscles  of  his 
face  setting  themselves  into  hard  lines. 

When  the  door  opened  and  some 
one  approached  him,  he  rose  stiffly  and 
held  out  his  hand  like  an  automaton. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Lannithorne? 
I  am  Oliver  Pickersgill,  and  I  have 
come  — I  have  come  —  " 

His  voice  trailed  off  into  silence,  for 
he  had  raised  his  eyes  perfunctorily 


THE   PRELIMINARIES          37 

to  Peter  Lannithorne's  face,  and  the 
things  printed  there  made  him  forget 
himself  and  the  speech  he  had  pre 
pared. 

He  saw  a  massive  head  topping  an 
insignificant  figure.  A  fair  man  was 
Peter  Lannithorne,  with  heavy  reddish 
hair,  a  bulging  forehead,  and  deep-set 
gray  eyes  with  a  light  behind  them. 
His  features  were  irregular  and  unno- 
ticeable,  but  the  sum-total  of  them  gave 
the  impression  offeree.  It  was  a  strong 
face,  yet  you  could  see  that  it  had  once 
been  a  weak  one.  It  was  a  tremend 
ously  human  face,  a  face  like  a  battle 
ground,  scarred  and  seamed  and  lined 
with  the  stress  of  invisible  conflicts. 
There  was  so  much  of  struggle  and 
thought  set  forth  in  it  that  one  invol 
untarily  averted  one's  gaze.  It  did  not 
seem  decent  to  inspect  so  much  of  the 
soul  of  a  man  as  was  shown  in  Peter 


38          THE    PRELIMINARIES 

Lannithorne's  countenance.  Not  a 
triumphant  face  at  all,  and  yet  there 
was  peace  in  it.  Somehow,  the  man 
had  achieved  something,  arrived  some 
where,  and  the  record  of  the  journey 
was  piteous  and  terrible.  Yet  it  drew 
the  eyes  in  awe  as  much  as  in  wonder, 
and  in  pity  not  at  all ! 

These  things  were  startlingly  clear 
to  Oliver.  He  saw  them  with  a  vivid 
ness  not  to  be  overestimated.  This 
was  a  prison.  This  might  be  a  convict, 
but  he  was  a  man.  He  was  a  man  who 
knew  things  and  would  share  his  know 
ledge.  His  wisdom  was  as  patent  as  his 
suffering,  and  both  stirred  young  Oli 
ver's  heart  to  its  depths.  His  pride, 
his  irritation,  his  rigidity  vanished  in 
a  flash.  His  fears  were  in  abeyance. 
Only  his  wonder  and  his  will  to  learn 
were  left. 

Lannithorne  did  not  take  the  offered 


THE   PRELIMINARIES         39 

hand,  yet  did  not  seem  to  ignore  it. 
He  came  forward  quietly  and  sat 
down  on  the  window-seat,  half  turn 
ing  so  that  he  and  Oliver  faced  each 
other. 

"Oliver  Pickersgill?"  he  said. 
"Then  you  are  Oliver  Pickersgill's 
son." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Lannithorne.  My  father 
sent  me  here  —  my  father,  and  Mrs. 
Lannithorne,  and  Ruth." 

At  his  daughter's  name  a  light  leaped 
into  Peter  Lannithorne's  eyes  that 
made  him  look  even  more  acutely  and 
painfully  alive  than  before. 

"And  what  have  you  to  do  with 
Ruth,  or  her  mother  ? "  the  man  asked. 

Here  it  was!  The  great  moment  was 
facing  him.  Oliver  caught  his  breath, 
then  went  straight  to  the  point. 

"  I  want  to  marry  your  daughter,  Mr. 
Lannithorne.  We  love  each  other  very 


40          THE   PRELIMINARIES 

much.  But  —  I  have  n't  quite  per 
suaded  her,  and  I  have  n't  persuaded 
Mrs.  Lannithorne  and  my  father  at  all. 
They  don't  see  it.  They  say  things  — 
all  sorts  of  dreadful  things,"  said  the 
boy.  "  You  would  think  they  had  never 
been  young  and  —  cared  for  anybody. 
They  seem  to  have  forgotten  what  it 
means.  They  try  to  make  us  afraid  — 
just  plain  afraid.  How  am  I  to  sup 
pose  that  they  know  best  about  Ruth 
and  me  ? " 

Lannithorne  looked  across  at  the 
young  man  long  and  fixedly.  Then  a 
great  kindliness  came  into  his  beaten 
face,  and  a  great  comprehension.  Oli 
ver,  meeting  his  eyes,  had  a  sudden 
sense  of  shelter,  and  felt  his  haunting 
fears  allayed.  It  was  absurd  and  in 
credible,  but  this  man  made  him  feel 
comfortable,  yes,  and  eager  to  talk 
things  over. 


THE    PRELIMINARIES          41 

"  They  all  said  you  would  know. 
They  sent  me  to  you." 

Peter  Lannithorne  smiled  faintly  to 
himself.  He  had  not  left  his  sense  of 
humor  behind  him  in  the  outside  world. 

"  They  sent  you  to  me,  did  they,  boy  ? 
And  what  did  they  tell  you  to  ask  me  ? 
They  had  different  motives,  I  take  it." 

"Rather!  Ruth  said  you  were  the 
best  man  she  had  ever  known,  and  if 
you  said  it  was  right  for  her  to  marry 
me,  she  would.  Mrs.  Lannithorne  said 
I  should  ask  you  if  you  thought  Ruth 
had  a  fighting  chance  for  happiness 
with  me.  She  does  n't  want  Ruth  to 
marry  anybody,  you  see.  My  father 
—  my  father  "  —  Oliver's  voice  shook 
with  his  consciousness  of  the  cruelty 
of  what  was  to  follow,  but  he  forced 
himself  to  steadiness  and  got  the  words 
out  —  "said  I  was  to  ask  you  what  a 
man  wants  in  the  family  of  the  woman 


42          THE    PRELIMINARIES 

he  marries.  He  said  you  knew  what 
was  what,  and  I  should  ask  you  what 
to  do." 

Lannithorne's  face  was  very  grave, 
and  his  troubled  gaze  sought  the  floor. 
Oliver,  convicted  of  brutality  and  con 
science-smitten,  hurried  on,  "  And  now 
that  I  've  seen  you,  I  want  to  ask  you  a 
few  things  for  myself,  Mr.  Lannithorne. 
I  —  I  believe  you  know." 

The  man  looked  up  and  held  up  an 
arresting  hand.  "  Let  me  clear  the  way 
for  you  a  little,"  he  said.  "  It  was  a  hard 
thing  for  you  to  come  and  seek  me  out 
in  this  place.  I  like  your  coming.  Most 
young  men  would  have  refused,  or 
came  in  a  different  spirit.  I  want  you 
to  understand  that  if  in  Ruth's  eyes, 
and  my  wife's,  and  your  father's,  my 
counsel  has  value,  it  is  because  they 
think  I  see  things  as  they  are.  And  that 
means,  first  of  all,  that  I  know  my- 


THE   PRELIMINARIES         43 

self  for  a  man  who  committed  a  crime, 
and  is  paying  the  penalty.  I  am  satis 
fied  to  be  paying  it.  As  I  see  justice,  it 
is  just.  So,  if  I  seem  to  wince  at  your 
necessary  allusions  to  it,  that  is  part 
of  the  price.  I  don't  want  you  to  feel 
that  you  are  blundering  or  hurting  me 
more  than  is  necessary.  You  have  got 
to  lay  the  thing  before  me  as  it  is." 

Something  in  the  words,  in  the  dry, 
patient  manner,  in  the  endurance  of 
the  man's  face,  touched  Oliver  to  the 
quick  and  made  him  feel  all  manner 
of  new  things :  such  as  a  sense  of  the 
moral  poise  of  the  universe,  acquies 
cence  in  its  retributions,  and  a  curi 
ous  pride,  akin  to  Ruth's  own,  in  a 
man  who  could  meet  him  after  this 
fashion,  in  this  place. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Lannithorne,"  he 
said.  "  You  see,  it 's  this  way,  sir.  Mrs. 
Lannithorne  says  — " 


44         THE   PRELIMINARIES 

And  he  went  on  eagerly  to  set  forth 
his  new  problems  as  they  had  been 
stated  to  him. 

"  Well,  there  you  have  it,"  he  con 
cluded  at  last.  "  For  myself,  the  things 
they  said  opened  chasms  and  abysses. 
Mrs.  Lannithorne  seemed  to  think  I 
would  hurt  Ruth.  My  father  seemed 
to  think  Ruth  would  hurt  me.  Is  mar 
ried  life  something  to  be  afraid  of? 
When  I  look  at  Ruth,  I  am  sure  every 
thing  is  all  right.  It  may  be  miserable 
for  other  people,  but  how  could  it  be 
miserable  for  Ruth  and  me?" 

Peter  Lannithorne  looked  at  the 
young  man  long  and  thoughtfully 
again  before  he  answered.  Oliver  felt 
himself  measured  and  estimated,  but 
not  found  wanting.  When  the  man 
spoke,  it  was  slowly  and  with  difficulty, 
as  if  the  habit  of  intimate,  convincing 
speech  had  been  so  long  disused  that 


THE   PRELIMINARIES          45 

the  effort  was  painful.  The  sentences 
seemed  wrung  out  of  him,  one  by  one. 

"  They  have  n't  the  point  of  view," 
he  said.  "  It  is  life  that  is  the  great  ad 
venture.  Not  love,  not  marriage,  not 
business.  They  are  just  chapters  in  the 
book.  The  main  thing  is  to  take  the 
road  fearlessly,  —  to  have  courage  to 
live  one's  life." 

"  Courage  ? " 

Lannithorne  nodded. 

"  That  is  the  great  word.  Don't  you 
see  what  ails  your  father's  point  of 
view,  and  my  wife's?  One  wants  ab 
solute  security  in  one  way  for  Ruth ; 
the  other  wants  absolute  security  in 
another  way  for  you.  And  security  — 
why,  it's  just  the  one  thing  a  human 
being  can't  have,  the  thing  that 's  the 
damnation  of  him  if  he  gets  it !  The 
reason  it  is  so  hard  for  a  rich  man  to 
enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  that 


46          THE   PRELIMINARIES 

he  has  that  false  sense  of  security.  To 
demand  it  just  disintegrates  a  man.  I 
don't  know  why.  It  does." 

Oliver  shook  his  head  uncertainly. 

"  I  don't  quite  follow,  sir.  Ought  n't 
one  to  try  to  be  safe  ?  " 

"  One  ought  to  try,  yes.  That  is  com 
mon  prudence.  But  the  point  is  that, 
whatever  you  do  or  get,  you  are  n't 
after  all  secure.  There  is  no  such  con 
dition,  and  the  harder  you  demand  it, 
the  more  risk  you  run.  So  it  is  up  to  a 
man  to  take  all  reasonable  precautions 
about  his  money,  or  his  happiness,  or 
his  life,  and  trust  the  rest.  What  every 
man  in  the  world  is  looking  for  is  the 
sense  of  having  the  mastery  over  life. 
But  I  tell  you,  boy,  there  is  only  one 
thing  that  really  gives  it ! " 

"  And  that  is  —  ? " 

Lannithorne  hesitated  perceptibly. 
For  the  thing  he  was  about  to  tell  this 


THE   PRELIMINARIES          47 

undisciplined  lad  was  his  most  precious 
possession;  it  was  the  piece  of  wisdom 
for  which  he  had  paid  with  the  years  of 
his  life.  No  man  parts  lightly  with  such 
knowledge. 

"  It  comes,"  he  said,  with  an  effort, 
"  with  the  knowledge  of  our  power  to 
endure.  That 's  it.  You  are  safe  only 
when  you  can  stand  everything  that  can 
happen  to  you.  Then  and  then  only! 
Endurance  is  the  measure  of  a  man." 

Oliver's  heart  swelled  within  him  as 
he  listened,  and  his  face  shone,  for  these 
words  found  his  young  soul  where  it 
lived.  The  chasms  and  abysses  in  his 
path  suddenly  vanished,  and  the  road 
lay  clear  again,  winding  uphill,  wind 
ing  down,  but  always  lit  for  Ruth  and 
him  by  the  light  in  each  other's  eyes. 
For  surely  neither  Ruth  nor  he  could 
ever  fail  in  courage ! 

"Sometimes  I  think  it  is  harder  to 


48         THE   PRELIMINARIES 

endure  what  we  deserve,  like  me,"  said 
Lannithorne,  "than  what  we  don't.  I 
was  afraid,  you  see,  afraid  for  my  wife 
and  all  of  them.  Anyhow,  take  my  word 
for  it.  Courage  is  security.  There  is 
no  other  kind." 

"Then  — Ruth  and  I  —  " 

"  Ruth  is  the  core  of  my  heart ! "  said 
Lannithorne  thickly.  "  I  would  rather 
die  than  have  her  suffer  more  than  she 
must.  But  she  must  take  her  chances 
like  the  rest.  It  is  the  law  of  things. 
If  you  know  yourself  fit  for  her,  and 
feel  reasonably  sure  you  can  take  care 
of  her,  you  have  a  right  to  trust  the 
future.  Myself,  I  believe  there  is  Some 
One  to  trust  it  to.  As  for  the  next  gen 
eration,  God  and  the  mothers  look 
after  that!  You  may  tell  your  father 
so  from  me.  And  you  may  tell  my  wife 
I  think  there  is  the  stuff  of  a  man  in 
you.  And  Ruth  — tell  Ruth  —  " 


THE    PRELIMINARIES          49 

He  could  not  finish.  Oliver  reached 
out  and  found  his  hand  and  wrung  it 
hard. 

"I'll  tell  her,  sir,  that  I  feel  about 
her  father  as  she  does !  And  that  he 
approves  of  our  venture.  And  I  '11  tell 
myself,  always,  what  you've  just  told 
me.  Why,  it  must  be  true !  You  need  n't 
be  afraid  I'll  forget — when  the  time 
comes  for  remembering." 

Finding  his  way  out  of  the  prison 
yard  a  few  minutes  later,  Oliver  looked, 
unseeing,  at  the  high  walls  that  soared 
against  the  blue  spring  sky.  He  could 
not  realize  them,  there  was  such  a  sense 
of  light,  air,  space,  in  his  spirit. 

Apparently,  he  was  just  where  he 
had  been  an  hour  before,  with  all  his 
battles  still  to  fight,  but  really  he  knew 
they  were  already  won,  for  his  weapon 
had  been  forged  and  put  in  his  hand. 
He  left  his  boyhood  behind  him  as  he 


5o          THE   PRELIMINARIES 

passed  that  stern  threshold,  for  the  last 
hour  had  made  a  man  of  him,  and  a 
prisoner  had  given  him  the  master-key 
that  opens  every  door. 


THE  LONG  INHERITANCE 


THE  LONG  INHERITANCE 

I 

MY  niece,  Desire  Withacre, 
wished  to  divorce  her  hus 
band,  Dr.  Arnold  Ackroyd,  —  the 
young  Dr.  Arnold,  you  understand, — 
to  the  end  that  she  might  marry  a  more 
interesting  man. 

Other  men  than  I  have  noticed  that 
in  these  latter  days  we  really  do  not 
behave  any  better  than  other  people 
when  it  comes  to  certain  serious  issues 
of  life,  notably  the  marital.  "  We  "  means 
to  me  people  of  an  heredity  and  a  train 
ing  like  my  own,  —  Americans  of  the 
old  stock,  with  a  normal  Christian  up 
bringing,  who  presumably  inherit  from 
their  forebears  a  reasonable  suscepti 
bility  to  high  ideals  of  living.  I  grew 


54    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

up  with  the  impression  that  such  a 
birth  and  rearing  were  a  kind  of  moral 
insurance  against  the  grosser  human 
blunders  and  errors.  Without  vanity, 
I  certainly  did 

"  Thank  the  goodness  and  the  grace 
That  on  my  birth  had  smiled." 

It  puzzled  me  for  a  long  while,  the 
light-hearted,  careless  way  in  which 
some  of  the  younger  Withacres,  Green 
ings,  Raynies,  Fordhams,  and  so  on  (I 
name  them  out  of  many,  because  they 
are  all  kin  to  me)  kicked  over  the  traces 
of  their  family  responsibilities.  I  could 
understand  it  in  others  —  but  not  in 
them. 

It  was  little  Desire  Withacre  who 
finally  illuminated  the  problem  for  me. 
I  am  about  to  tell  what  I  know  of  De 
sire's  fling.  If  it  seems  to  be  a  story 
with  an  undue  amount  of  moral,  I  must 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE     55 

refer  the  responsibility  of  that  to  Provi 
dence.  The  tale  is  of  its  making,  not 
of  mine. 

I  am  afraid  that,  to  get  it  all  clearly 
before  you,  I  shall  have  to  prose  for  a 
while  about  the  families  involved. 

I  am  Benjamin  Stubbins  Raynie, 
Desire's  bachelor  uncle,  and  almost  the 
last  of  the  big-nosed  Raynies.  My  elder 
sister,  Lucretia  Stubbins  Raynie,  mar 
ried  Robert  Withacre,  one  of  the  "  wild 
Withacres"  in  whose  blood  there  is  a 
streak  of  genius  and  its  revolts.  The 
Withacres  all  have  talent — mostly  in 
effectual —  and  keen  aesthetic  sensi 
bilities.  All  of  them  can  talk  like  an 
gels  from  Heaven.  By  no  stretch  of  the 
imagination  can  they  be  called  thrifty. 
We  considered  it  a  very  poor  match 
for  Lucretia.  The  Raynies  are  quiet 
people,  not  showy,  but  substantial  and 
sensible;  with  a  certain  sentimental 


56    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

streak  out-cropping  here  and  there,  es 
pecially  in  the  big-nosed  branch ;  while 
the  red-headed  Raynies  are  the  better 
money-makers. 

I  know  now  that  Lucretia  secretly 
believed  her  offspring  were  destined 
to  unite  Withacre  talent  and  Raynie 
poise.  She  prayed  in  her  heart  that 
the  world  might  be  the  richer  by  a  man 
child  of  her  race  who  should  be  both 
gifted  and  sane.  But  her  children 
proved  to  be  twin  girls,  Judith  and 
Desire.  Queer  little  codgers  I  thought 
them,  big-eyed,  curly-headed,  subdued 
when  on  exhibition.  Lucretia  told  long 
stories,  to  which  I  gave  slight  atten 
tion,  intended  to  prove  that  Judith 
was  a  marvelous  example  of  old-head- 
on-young-shoulders,  and  that  Desire, 
demure,  elfin  Desire,  was  a  miracle  of 
cleverness  and  winning  ways. 

In  view  of  Desire's  career,  I  judge 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE    57 

that  these  maternal  prepossessions 
were  not  wholly  misplaced.  As  a  small 
child  she  captivated  her  Uncle  Green 
ing  as  well  as  her  aunt  (our  sister, 
Mary  Stubbins  Raynie,  married  Adam 
Greening  of  the  well-known  banking 
firm  of  Greening,  Bowers  &  Co.).  The 
Greenings  were  childless,  and  Desire 
spent  much  of  her  early  life  and  nearly 
all  her  girlhood  under  Mary  Greening's 
care  and  chaperonage.  I  confess  to 
fondness  for  a  bit  of  repartee  with 
Desire  now  and  then,  myself.  Perhaps 
I  had  my  share  in  spoiling  her.  I  take 
it  a  human  being  is  spoiled  when  he 
grows  up  believing  himself  practically 
incapable  of  wrong-doing.  That  is  what 
happened  to  Desire.  Approval  had  fol 
lowed  her  all  of  her  days.  How  should 
she  know,  poor,  petted  little  scrap,  any 
thing  about  the  predestined  pitfalls  of 
all  flesh? 


58    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

Of  course  the  Robert  Withacres 
were  always  as  poor  as  poverty,  and 
of  course  our  family  was  always  plan 
ning  for  and  assisting  them.  Fortunate 
ly  both  the  twins  married  early,  and  ex 
ceptionally  well.  Judith  became  en 
gaged  to  a  promising  young  civil 
engineer  when  visiting  a  school  friend 
in  Chicago.  He  said  she  reminded  him 
of  the  New  London  girls.  He  was 
homesick,  I  think.  At  all  events  the 
engagement  was  speedy. 

But  our  little  Desire  did  better  than 
that.  She  witched  the  heart  out  of 
young  Arnold  Ackroyd. 

Do  I  need  to  explain  the  Ackroyds 
to  any  one  ?  They  are  one  of  those  ex 
ceptional  families  whose  moral  worth 
is  so  prominent  that  it  even  dims  the 
lustre  of  their  intellectual  stability  and 
their  financial  rating.  They  are  so  many 
other,  better  things  that  no  one  ever 


THE    LONG   INHERITANCE     59 

thinks  or  speaks  of  them  as  "rich." 
And  in  this  day  and  generation  that  is 
real  achievement. 

Desire's  marriage  gratified  me  deep 
ly,  and  for  a  wedding  present  I  gave 
her  the  Queen  Anne  silver  tea-set  I 
inherited  from  great-aunt  Abby.  I  be 
lieve  in  the  Ackroyds,  root  and  branch. 
They  have,  somehow  or  other,  accom 
plished  what  all  the  rest  of  us  are  striv 
ing  for.  They  have  actually  lifted  an 
entire  family  connection  to  a  plane 
where  ability,  worth,  accomplishment, 
are  matters  of  course.  Nobody  has 
ever  heard  of  a  useless,  incompetent 
Ackroyd.  Their  consequent  social  pre 
eminence,  which  possibly  meant  some 
thing  to  Mary  Greening  and  which 
certainly  counted  with  Desire,  is  merely 
incidental  to  their  substantial  merit. 
They  are  prominent  for  the  rare  rea 
son  that  they  deserve  to  be.  They  are 
the  Real  Thing. 


60    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

Unless  you  happen  to  be  in  touch 
with  them  intellectually,  however,  this 
is  not  saying  that  you  will  always  find 
all  of  them  the  liveliest  of  companions. 
The  name  connotes  honor,  ability,  char 
acter;  it  does  not  necessarily  imply 
humor,  high  spirits,  the  joy  of  life. 

Desire  herself  told  me  of  her  engage 
ment.  I  don't,  somehow,  forget  how 
she  looked  when  she  came  to  tell  me 
about  it — shy,  excited,  radiant.  She 
fluttered  into  my  office  and  stood  at 
the  end  of  my  desk,  looking  down  at 
me.  Desire  was  very  pretty  at  twenty- 
one,  with  her  pointed  face  and  big  ex 
pressive  eyes,  her  white  forehead  shad 
owed  by  a  heap  of  cloudy,  curling,  dark 
hair.  Palpitating  with  life,  she  looked 
like  some  kind  of  a  marvelous  human 
hummingbird.  It  did  not  surprise  me 
that  Arnold  Ackroyd  found  her 
"All  a  wonder  and  a  wild  desire." 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE    61 

For  all  her  excitement  she  spoke 
very  softly. 

"Uncle  Ben,  mother  wants  me  to 
tell  you  something.  I  have  n't  told  any 
body  else  but  her." 

"What  is  it,  Desire?" 

"I  —  why,  Uncle  Ben  —  I Ve  pro 
mised  to  marry  Arnold  Ackroyd!  " 

"Well,  well,"  I  said  inadequately, 
"this  is  news! " 

Desire  nodded  wistfully. 

"  It  seems  a  little  curious,  does  n't 
it  ?  We  're  not  a  bit  alike,"  she  said. 
"  But  he  is  splendid  !  I  'm  sure  I  shall 
never  meet  a  finer  man,  nor  one  I 
trust  more." 

"  Very  true,  Desire,  and  I  am  glad 
you  are  going  to  marry  such  a  man," 
I  observed,  arising  slowly  to  the  occa 
sion  and  to  my  feet,  and  offering  a 
congratulatory  hand. 

"  Mother    says    it 's    a    wonderful 


62    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

thought  for  a  young  woman  that  her 
future  is  as  secure  as  the  cycle  of  the 
seasons,"  returned  Desire,  with  her 
hand  in  mine,  "  and  I  suppose  it  is, 
but  that  is  n't  why  I  love  him.  Uncle 
Ben,  he 's  really  wonderful  when  you 
find  out  what  he 's  thinking  behind 
those  quiet  eyes.  And  then — do  you 
know  he  's  one  of  the  few  really  meri 
torious  persons  I  ever  made  like  me. 
I  've  been  afraid  there  was  something 
queer  about  me,  for  freaks  always  take 
to  me  at  once.  But  if  Arnold  Ackroyd 
likes  me,  I  must  be  all  right,  mustn't 
I?  It's  such  a  relief  to  be  sure  of  it ! " 
I  took  this  for  a  touch  of  flippancy, 
having  forgotten  how  long  the  young 
must  grope  and  wonder,  hopelessly, 
before  they  find  and  realize  themselves. 
It  was,  I  think,  precisely  because 
Arnold  Ackroyd  helped  that  vibrant 
temperament  to  feel  itself  resting  on 


THE    LONG    INHERITANCE     63 

solid  ground  that  he  became  so  easily 
paramount  in  Desire's  life  at  this  time. 
However  it  may  have  been  afterward, 
during  their  brief  engagement  he  was 
all  things  to  my  niece,  while  she  to 
him  was  a  creature  of  enchantment. 
I  shall  always  maintain  that  they  knew 
young  love  at  its  best. 

Desire  was  wedded  with  more  pomp 
and  circumstance  than  Lucretia  and  I 
really  cared  for.  That  was  her  Aunt 
Greening's  affair.  Mary  Greening  al 
ways  did  like  an  effect  of  pageantry, 
and  was  willing  to  pay  for  it.  They 
went  abroad  afterwards,  and  I  remem 
ber  as  significant  that  Desire  enjoyed 
the  Musee  de  Cluny  more  than  the 
lectures  they  heard  at  the  Sorbonne. 
On  their  return  they  lived  in  dignity 
and  comfort.  They  had  a  couple  of 
pretty,  unusual-looking  children,  who 
were  provided  with  a  French  nurse  at 


64    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

twenty  months,  and  other  educational 
conveniences  in  due  season,  more  in 
accordance  with  the  standards  of 
Grandmamma  Ackroyd  than  with  the 
demands  of  the  Withacres  and  Ray- 
nies. 

They  were  certainly  as  happy  as 
most  people.  If  Desire  had  any  un- 
gratified  wishes,  I  never  heard  of  them. 
I  dined  with  them  frequently,  but  now 
see  that  I  knew  absolutely  nothing 
about  them.  I  took  it  for  granted  that 
they  would  always  walk,  as  they  seemed 
to  be  doing,  in  ways  of  pleasantness 
and  peace. 

It  never  entered  my  head  that  any 
body  of  my  own  blood  and  a  decent 
bringing-up  could  do  what  Desire  did 
presently.  I  had  a  simple-minded  no 
tion  that  we  were  above  it.  Which 
brings  me  back  to  my  premise.  After 
all,  we  of  a  long  inheritance  of  upright 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE    65 

living  do   not   always  behave   better 
than  other  people. 

II 

LUCRETIA  was  first  to  come. 

The  winter  it  all  happened,  I  was 
house-bound  with  rheumatism  and  had 
no  active  part  in  the  drama.  By  day 
I  was  wheeled  into  the  little  upstairs 
study  and  sat  with  my  mind  on  chloro 
form  liniment  and  flannels,  while  my 
family  and  friends  came  to  me,  bear 
ing  gifts.  Sometimes  they  sought  the 
house  to  amuse  me,  sometimes  to  re 
lieve  their  minds. 

Lucretia's  burden  was  heaviest,  so 
she  was  first. 

The  November  morning  was  raw 
and  hideous.  There  were  flakes  of 
snow  on  my  sister's  venerable  and 
shabby  sealskin.  She  laid  back  the 


66    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

veil  on  the  edge  of  her  little  black 
bonnet,  —  she  had  been  a  widow  for 
two  years,  —  brushed  the  snow  from 
her  slightly  worn  shopping-bag  and 
sat  down  in  front  of  the  fire,  pulling 
nervously  at  her  gloves. 

Lucretia  is  thin,  sharp-featured 
ivory-skinned.  Her  aspect  is  both  fa 
tigued  and  ardent.  Nothing  that  Mary 
and  I  were  ever  able  to  do  for  her 
lifted  in  the  least  from  her  own  spirit 
the  weight  of  her  poverty-stricken, 
troublous,  married  life;  and  in  her 
outer  woman  she  persists  in  retaining 
that  aspect  of  carefully  brushed,  val 
iantly  borne  adversity  which  is  so  try 
ing  to  more  prosperous  and  would-be- 
helpful  kin. 

I  made  a  few  comments  on  the 
weather,  which  Lucretia  did  not  an 
swer.  Realizing  suddenly  that  she  was 
agitated,  I  became  silent,  hoping  that 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE     67 

the  quiet,  comfortable  room,  the  snap 
ping  fire,  and  my  own  inertness,  would 
act  as  a  sedative.  It  did  not  occur  to 
me  that  any  really  serious  matter  could 
be  afoot.  I  had  ceased  to  expect  that 
life  would  offer  any  of  us  anything  worse 
than  occasional  physical  discomfort. 

Having  regained  her  composure, 
my  sister  spoke  without  preface. 

"  I  am  in  great  trouble,  Benjamin. 
Desire  has  made  up  her  mind  to  leave 
her  husband,  and  nothing  I  say  has 
the  slightest  effect." 

"Good  Heavens!  Lucretia!  What 
do  you  mean? " 

"  Just  what  I  say.  Desire  declares 
she  isn't  'satisfied'  as  Arnold  Ack- 
royd's  wife.  So  she  proposes  to  put 
an  end  to  the  relation.  I  judge  she  in 
tends,  later,  to  contract  another  mar 
riage,  though  she  is  n't  disposed  to  lay 
stress  on  that  point." 


68    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

I  continued  to  look  at  Lucretia 
wide-eyed,  and  possibly  wide-mouthed. 
The  things  she  was  saying  were  so 
preposterous,  so  incredible,  that  I 
could  not  accept  them.  It  was  as  if  I 
had  received  a  message  that  the  full 
moon  was  not  "satisfied"  to  climb 
the  evening  sky. 

"Lord!  Lord!  Little  Desire!"  I 
muttered. 

"  She  is  a  woman  of  thirty,  Benja 
min." 

"  What  does  she  say  ? "  I  exploded. 
"  What  is  wrong  in  her  married  life  ? 
People  don't  do  these  things  cause 
lessly  —  not  the  people  we  are  or 
know." 

"  She  says  a  great  deal,"  returned 
her  mother  dryly.  "  Did  you  ever  know 
a  Withacre  to  be  lacking  in  words, 
Benjamin?  Desire  is  very  fluent.  I 
might  say  she  is  eloquent." 


THE    LONG    INHERITANCE     69 

"  But  what  does  it  all  amount  to, 
anyhow  ?  "  I  demanded  impatiently. 
Dazed  though  I  was,  my  consciousness 
of  being  the  head  of  the  family  was 
returning. 

Lucretia  lifted  her  left  hand,  which 
was  trembling,  and  checked  off  the 
items  on  her  fingers.  Her  hands  were 
shapety,  though  dark  and  shrunken, 
with  swollen  veins  across  the  back. 
The  firelight  struck  the  worn  gold  of 
her  wedding  ring. 

"She  demands  a  less  hampered  life; 
a  more  variegated  self-expression;  a 
chance  to  help  the  world  in  her  own 
way ;  an  existence  that  shall  be  a  daily 
development ;  the  opportunity  to  give 
perpetual  stimulus  and  refreshment  to 
an  utterly  congenial  mate.  Oh !  I  know 
her  reasons  by  heart,"  said  Lucretia. 
"  They  sound  like  fine  things,  don't 
they,  Benjamin  ?" 


70    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

"Who  is  the  other  man?" 

"  Fortunately,  none  of  us  know  him. 
He  is  a  Westerner  with  one  of  those 
absurdly  swollen  fortunes.  Desire 
would  n't  have  thought  it  a  wider  life 
to  marry  a  poorer  man.  Such  women 
don't." 

"  I  wish  you  would  n't  put  Desire  in 
a  class  and  call  her  'such  women,' 
Lucretia,"  I  protested  irritably. 

My  sister  looked  at  me  strangely. 

"  You,  too  ?  Can  money  buy  you 
too  ? "  she  said. 

She  rose  and  steadied  her  trembling 
arms  upon  the  low  mantle.  She  stood, 
a  black-clad  figure,  between  me  and 
the  glowing  hearth,  looking  down  into 
the  heart  of  the  fire  as  she  spoke.  I 
had  begun  to  perceive,  vaguely,  that 
here  was  no  sister  I  had  ever  known 
before.  In  a  way  she  was  beside,  or 
rather  beyond,  herself. 


THE    LONG   INHERITANCE     71 

We  Raynies  are  self -controlled  peo 
ple.  Lucretia  had  always  been  a  silent 
woman,  keeping  her  emotions  to  her 
self.  But  they  say  earthquakes,  vast 
convulsion  of  regions  beneath  the  low 
est  seas,  will  sometimes  force  up  to  light 
of  day  strange  flotsam  from  the  ocean- 
bed.  Things  that  the  eyes  of  men  have 
never  seen,  nor  their  busy  minds  con 
ceived,  float  up  to  face  the  sun.  From 
Lucretia's  shaken  soul  arose  such  un- 
imagined  things. 

Her  words  came  forth  swiftly,  al 
most  with  violence. 

"  Benjamin,  my  daughter  proposes 
leaving  for  Reno,  Nevada,  next  week 
to  procure  a  divorce.  —  I  'm  not  saying 
that  plenty  of  divorces  are  n't  justified. 
I  know  they  are.  Plenty  of  remar 
riages  too,  I  make  no  doubt.  I  Ve  lived 
long  enough  to  know  that  extremes  are 
always  wrong,  and  the  middle  course 


72     THE    LONG   INHERITANCE 

is  almost  always  right.  I  will  admit, 
if  you  like,  that  every  case  is  a  thing 
apart,  and  stands  on  its  own  merits, 
and  that  only  God  and  a  woman's  con 
science  are  the  judges  of  what  she 
should  do.  But  Desire's  case  has  no 
merits! 

"  I  know  Arnold,  and  I  know  Desire; 
he  is  a  busy  man  and  she  is  an  indulged 
woman.  She  might  have  entered  into 
his  life  and  interests  if  she  had  chosen; 
the  door  was  as  much  open  as  it  can 
be  between  a  man  and  a  woman.  I  don't 
claim  it  is  ever  easy  for  them  to  see 
clearly  into  each  other's  worlds.  But 
they  do  it,  every  day.  Here  is  Arnold 
working  himself  to  death,  reducing 
fractures  and  removing  appendixes,  and 
trying  to  make  the  people  who  swarm 
to  him  into  whole  and  healthy  men  and 
women.  That 's  a  good  way  to  help  the 
world  if  you  do  it  with  every  ounce  of 


THE    LONG   INHERITANCE     73 

conscience  there  is  in  you.  Here  is 
Desire,  fiddling  with  art  and  literature 
and  civics  and  economics,  and  wanting 
to  'uplift  the  masses'  with  Scandina 
vian  dramas  and  mediaeval  art  and 
woman  suffrage.  If  she  really  wants 
to  enrich  life  for  others,  and  she  says 
she  does,  why,  in  Heaven's  name, 
does  n't  she  hold  up  Arnold  Ackroyd's 
hands?  There  is  work  that  is  worth 
while,  and  it  would  take  more  brains 
and  ability  than  she  owns  to  do  it  well ! 
It  is  her  work  ;  she  chose  it ;  she  dedi 
cated  herself  to  it.  Now  she  repudiates 
it  —  for  a  whim." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  is  just  a  whim, 
Lucretia?"  I  interrupted  rather  shame 
facedly.  "Mightn't  it  be — er — a 
very  violent  attachment  ? " 

Lucretia  shook  her  head. 

"  These  women  nowadays  are  sim 
ply  crazy  about  themselves.  Are  self- 


74     THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

centred  people  ever  capable  of  great 
passions  ?  " 

I  made  no  protest,  for  I  had  thought 
the  same  thing  myself. 

"When  they  have  dethroned  their 
God  and  repudiated  their  families, 
what  is  there  left  to  worship  and  work 
for  but  themselves  ?  "  she  demanded 
grimly.  "  Half  the  women  I  meet  are 
as  mad  for  incense  to  their  vanity  as 
the  men  are  mad  for  money." 

"  Lucretia,"  I  said  with  all  the  firm 
ness  I  could  muster,  "  I  do  not  think 
you  ought  to  allow  yourself  to  take 
this  thing  in  this  way.  It  is  regret 
table  enough  without  working  yourself 
up  to  such  a  pitch  of  agony." 

She  looked  into  the  fire  as  if  she  had 
not  heard  me,  and  went  rapidly  on :  — 

"  Sixty  years  ago,  such  things  were 
unheard-of;  forty  years  ago,  they  were 
a  disgrace;  twenty  years  ago,  they  were 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE     75 

questioned;  to-day,  they  are  accepted. 
And  yet  they  say  the  world  advances! 
With  all  my  troubles,  Benjamin,  I  am 
just  learning  why  men  call  death  gra 
cious  —  and  my  daughter  is  my  teacher. 
Desire  is  at  the  restless  age.  I  have 
seen  a  good  many  women  between 
thirty  and  forty  try  to  wreck  their 
lives  and  other  people's.  You  see,  the 
dew  is  gone  from  the  flowers.  They 
have  come  to  the  heat  and  burden  of 
the  day.  And  they  don't  like  it." 

"  You  mean,"  I  said,  laboriously  try 
ing  to  follow  her  glancing  thought  in 
my  own  fashion,  "  that  they  miss  the 
drama  of  early  romance,  and  resent 
the  fact  that  it  has  been  replaced  by 
the  larger  drama  of  responsibility  and 
action  ? " 

"  That  is  a  fine,  sonorous  way  of  put 
ting  it,"  she  said  bitterly,  "but  there 
are  more  forcible  ways." 


76    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

She  laughed  unpleasantly.  I  could 
feel  the  cruel  words  trembling  on  her 
lips,  but  she  checked  herself. 

"  Oh,  what  is  the  use  of  talking,"  she 
cried,  "  or  of  casting  stones  at  other 
women?  It  doesn't  help  me  to  bear 
Desire's  falling  away.  Benjamin,  I 
would  have  known  how  to  forgive  a 
child  who  had  sinned.  I  don't  know 
how  to  forgive  one  who  has  failed  like 
this !  Desire  is  throwing  away  a  life, 
not  because  it  is  intolerable,  not  be 
cause  it  is  hard,  even ;  but  just  because 
it  has  ceased  to  be  exciting  and  amus 
ing  enough.  But  it  is  her  life  that  she 
throws  away.  She  cannot  make  a  new 
one  that  will  be  real  and  her  very  own. 
She  says  she  has  'ceased  to  love.'  They 
always  say  that.  But  love  comes  and 
goes  always.  There  is  no  such  thing 
as  perpetual  joy.  Love  is  the  morning 
vision.  We  are  meant  to  hide  that  vis- 


THE    LONG   INHERITANCE     77 

ion  in  our  hearts  and  serve  it  on  our 
knees.  Good  women  know  this  and  do 
it.  That  is  what  it  means  to  be  a  wife. 
The  vision  is  the  thing  we  cherish  and 
live  for  to  the  end.  Desire  is  no  cheated 
woman.  She  had  young  love  at  its  best; 
she  has  her  children's  faces.  There  is 
such  a  thing  as  perpetual  peace ;  life 
gives  it  to  the  loyally  married.  She 
might  have  had  that,  too.  But  she 
throws  it  all  away  —  for  novelty,  for 
new  sensations.  My  daughter  is  a 
wanton ! " 

"Lucretia!" 

The  energy  of  my  ejaculation,  the 
sight  of  my  surprise,  brought  my  sister 
back  to  her  normal  self.  She  dropped 
into  her  chair  again,  looking  wan  and 
shocked  at  her  own  violence  of  expres 
sion. 

"  You  see  how  it  is,"  she  said  humbly. 
"  I  am  not  fit  to  trust  myself  to  talk 


78    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

about  it.  I  ought  to  apologize  for  my 
language,  Benjamin,  —  but  that  is  the 
way  I  feel." 

I  had  regained  somewhat  of  my 
poise  and  my  authority. 

"  See  here,  Lucretia,  if  this  thing  is 
to  be,  you  mustn't  be  so  bitter  about 
it.  Desire  is  your  daughter.  She  be 
longs  to  us.  She  has  always  been  a 
pretty  good  girl.  We  must  n't  be  too 
hard  on  her  now,  even  if  she  does  n't 
conform  to  our  ideas.  Everybody  must 
live  their  own  lives,  you  know." 

Lucretia  threw  back  her  head ;  her 
deep-set  eyes  were  burning,  and  the 
color  suffused  her  face  again. 

"  No ! "  she  said  sharply.  "  That  must 
they  not.  Decent  people  accept  some 
of  the  conclusions  of  their  forebears  and 
build  upon  the  sure  foundation  reared 
by  the  convictions  of  their  own  people. 
You  say  she  belongs  to  us.  That  is  the 


THE    LONG   INHERITANCE     79 

worst  of  it !  You  childless  man !  Can't 
you  guess  what  it  would  mean  to  bear, 
to  nourish,  to  train,  —  to  endure  and 
endure,  to  love  and  love,  —  and  then 
to  have  the  flesh  of  your  flesh  turn  on 
you  and  trample  on  all  your  sacredest 
things  ?  It  is  the  ultimate  outrage. 
God  knows  whether  I  deserve  it !  God 
forgive  me  if  I  do !  " 

There  was  silence  in  the  room.  I 
had  nothing  more  to  say.  I  recognized 
at  last  how  far  Lucretia  in  her  lonely 
agony  was  beyond  any  trite  placation 
of  mine. 

After  what  seemed  an  age,  she  spoke. 
She  was  herself  again.  The  violently 
parted  waves  had  closed  over  the  life 
of  those  far  gray  depths,  and  she  offered 
her  accustomed  surface  to  my  observa 
tion. 

"  I  did  not  sleep  at  all  last  night, 
Benjamin.  Desire  was  with  me  during 


8o    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

the  afternoon  and  we  talked  this  thing 
out.  I  ought  not  to  have  seen  any  one 
so  soon,  but  I  came  here  with  the  in 
tention  of  asking  you  to  reason  with 
her.  I  see  it  would  do  no  good  if  you 
did.  Things  are  as  they  are,  and  I 
must  accept  them.  I  will  go  home  now. 
I  am  better  off  there." 

She  rose,  put  down  her  veil,  drew 
on  her  gloves,  and  picked  up  the  shab 
by  shopping-bag,  quietly  putting  aside 
my  hesitating  protestations  and  sug 
gestions  of  luncheon. 

At  the  door  she  turned  and  prof 
fered  a  last  word  of  extenuation  for 
herself.  "  You  ought  to  understand, 
for  it  is  our  blood  in  me  that  rebels.  I 
never  thought  when  I  married  a  With- 
acre  that  I  might  bring  into  the  world 
a  child  that  wasn't  dependable — but 
I  might  have  known ! "  she  said. 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE     81 
III 

LUCRETIA,  departing,  left  me  tremu 
lous.  The  flame-like  rush  of  her  mind 
had  scorched  my  consciousness ;  the 
great  waves  of  her  emotion  had  pound 
ed  and  beaten  me.  I  shared,  and  yet 
shrank  from,  her  passionate  apprehen 
sion  of  our  little  Desire's  failure  in  the 
righteous  life.  For  I  was,  and  am,  fond 
of  Desire. 

I  spent  a  feverish  and  most  miser 
able  day.  There  were  so  many  unhappy 
things  to  consider!  The  gossip  that 
would  rack  the  town  apparently  did 
not  concern  Lucretia  at  all.  I  am  hide 
bound,  I  dare  say,  and  choked  with 
convention.  Certainly  I  shrank  from 
the  notoriety  that  would  attach  itself 
to  us  when  young  Mrs.  Arnold  Ack- 
royd  took  up  her  residence  in  Reno, 
as  a  first  step  toward  the  wider  life. 


82    THE   LONG  INHERITANCE 

Then  there  was  the  disruption  of  old 
ties  of  friendship  and  esteem.  It  would 
be  painful  to  lose  the  Ackroyds  from 
among  our  intimates,  yet  impossible 
to  retain  them  on  the  old  footing.  I 
already  had  that  curious  feeling  of 
having  done  the  united  clan  vicarious 
injury. 

Toward  five  o'clock  my  sister  Mary, 
Mrs.  Greening,  tapped  on  the  door. 

Mary  Greening  and  I  are  good 
friends  for  brother  and  sister.  As  child 
ren  we  were  chums;  we  abbreviated 
for  each  other  the  middle  name  we  all 
bore,  Mary  calling  me  Stub,  and  I 
calling  her  Stubby.  We  meant  this  to 
express  exceptional  fraternal  fealty.  It 
was  like  a  mystic  rite  that  bound  us 
together. 

She  came  in  almost  breezily.  For  a 
woman  in  late  middle  life  Mary  Green 
ing  is  comely.  There  is  at  the  bottom 


THE   LONG  INHERITANCE    83 

of  her  nature  an  indomitable  youthful- 
ness,  to  which  her  complexion  and 
movements  bear  happy  witness. 

"  Well,  Stub,  has  Lucretia  been 
here?" 

"  Come  and  sit  down,  Mary.  Yes, 
Lucretia  has  been  here.  Very  much 
so,"  I  answered  dejectedly. 

Mary  swept  across  the  room  almost 
majestically.  Quite  the  type  of  a  fine 
woman  is  Mary  Greening,  though  per 
haps  a  thought  too  plump.  She  threw 
back  her  sable  stole  and  unfastened 
her  braided  violet  coat;  she  prefers 
richly  embellished  garments,  though 
they  are  thought  garish  by  some  of  the 
matrons  in  her  set. 

"You  keep  it  much  too  warm  in 
here,"  she  said  critically. 

I  made  a  grimace. 

"  Your  hat  is  a  little  to  one  side, 
Stubby,  as  usual." 


84    THE    LONG   INHERITANCE 

She  put  her  hand  up  tentatively  to 
the  confection  of  fur,  yellow  lace,  and 
violet  orchids. 

"  I  don't  think  Lenore  ballasts  my 
hats  properly,"  she  said  plaintively. 
"  It  can't  be  my  fault  that  they  slide 
about  so.  But  I  did  n't  come  to  talk 
about  hats." 

I  sighed.  "  No,  you  came  to  talk 
about  Desire.  Mary,  how  long  have 
you  known  about  this  deplorable  af 
fair?" 

"Oh  —  ever  since  there  has  been 
anything  to  know!  Desire  has  always 
talked  to  me  more  than  to  her  mother. 
You  know,  Ben,  one  would  n't  choose 
Lucretia  as  a  confidante  in  any  kind 
of  a  heart  affair." 

"  Don't  put  on  that  worldly  air  with 
me,  Mary  Greening,"  I  said  crossly. 
"  Lucretia  is  a  little  austere,  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  austerity  has  its  ad- 


THE    LONG   INHERITANCE     85 

vantages.  For  instance,  it  keeps  one 
out  of  the  newspapers.  Am  I  to  infer 
that  you  sympathize  with  Desire  ? " 

"Not  at  all,"  she  protested.  "You 
may  not  believe  me,  but  I  have  suffered 
and  suffered,  over  this  thing.  I  can't 
count  the  nights  I  have  lain  awake 
thinking  about  it.  At  first  it  seemed 
to  me  I  simply  could  not  have  it,  and 
I  thought  I  was  going  to  influence  De 
sire.  But  nobody  ever  influences  peo 
ple  in  matters  of  the  heart.  Of  course 
this  is  an  affair  on  the  highest  possible 
plane  —  so  I  thought  they  might  be 
more  reasonable.  But  I  don't  observe 
that  they  are." 

"  On  the  highest  possible  plane,"  I 
mused.  "  Mary,  be  candid  with  me.  I 
would  like  a  good  woman's  point  of 
view  on  this.  If  a  game  of  hearts  ends 
in  the  courts,  breaking  up  a  home  and 
smashing  the  lives  concerned  to  flin- 


86    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

ders,  do  you  really  think  it  matters 
whether  that  affair  is  on  a  high  plane 
or  a  low  one  ?  Does  it  seem  any  better 
to  you  for  being  the  finer  variety  ? " 

"  Certainly  it  does,"  returned  Mary 
Greening  promptly ;  "  though,"  she 
added  reflectively,  "  judged  by  results, 
I  see  it  is  illogical  to  feel  so." 

She  cogitated  a  little  longer. 

"  You  put  the  thing  too  crudely. 
Here  is  the  point,  Ben.  The  Devil 
never  makes  the  mistake  of  offering 
the  coarser  temptation  to  persons  of 
taste.  You  couldn't  have  tempted 
Desire  to  break  up  her  home  with  any 
temptation  that  did  n't  include  her  in 
tellect,  her  spirit,  and  her  aesthetic  in 
stincts.  And  when  one  gets  up  in  that 
corner  of  one's  nature,  people  like  you 
or  me  or  Desire  are  so  used  to  regard 
ing  all  the  demands  emanating  from 
there  as  legitimate,  as  something  to  be 


THE    LONG    INHERITANCE     87 

proud  of,  to  be  satisfied  at  almost  any 
cost,  that  it  takes  a  very  clear  sense  of 
right  and  wrong  to  prevent  confusion. 
And,  nowadays,  hardly  anybody  but 
old  fogies  and  back  numbers,  and 
people  who  have  lived  the  kind  of 
life  Lucretia  has,  possesses  a  clear 
sense  of  right  and  wrong.  It  has  gone 
out." 

"  What  became  of  Desire's  married 
happiness,  Mary  ?  I  thought  there  was 
so  much  of  it,  and  that  it  was  of  a  dur 
able  variety." 

"  Oh,  it  leaked  away  through  small 
cracks,  as  happiness  usually  does.  It  is 
hard  to  explain  to  a  man,  but  if  Arnold 
were  a  woman,  you  might  almost  say 
that  he  nagged.  He  is  too  detailed,  too 
exact,  for  Desire.  If,  for  instance,  she 
said  in  May,  '  I  believe  I  will  have  a 
green  cloth,  embroidered,  for  a  fall 
suit,'  about  the  first  of  November,  you 


88    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

might  expect  Arnold  to  remark,  '  I 
don't  see  that  green  cloth  suit  you 
said  you  were  going  to  have.  What 
made  you  change  your  mind  ? '  Desire 
delights  to  say  things  she  does  n't  mean 
and  lay  plans  she  does  n't  expect  to 
carry  out,  so  a  constant  repetition  of 
such  incidents  was  really  pretty  wear 
ing.  I  have  seen  her  when  she  re 
minded  me  of  a  captive  balloon  in  a 
high  wind. 

" '  A  woman  in  your  position  ought 
not  to  make  unconsidered  speeches' 
was  one  of  his  pet  remarks.  He  is  scien 
tific,  she  is  temperamental —  and  each 
of  them  expected  the  other  one  to  be 
born  again,  and  born  different  by  virtue 
of  mutual  affection  and  requirements. 
Arnold  will  go  on  wondering  to  the 
end  of  his  life  why  Desire  can't  be 
more  accurate,  more  purposeful.  As 
if  he  did  n't  fall  in  love  with  her  the 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE    89 

way  she  is !  And  then  along  comes  the 
Westerner  —  " 

"Where  did  they  meet?" 

"  Bessie  Fleming  introduced  them — 
at  some  silly  place  like  Atlantic  City. 
It  was  after  Desire  had  that  nervous 
breakdown  two  years  ago.  I  know  they 
were  both  in  wheeled  chairs  at  the  time, 
and  they  rode  up  and  down  together, 
talking,  like  long-separated  twin  souls, 
about  the  theory  of  aesthetics  and  kin 
dred  matters.  They  did  n't  require 
diagrams  to  see  each  other's  jokes,  and 
that  is  always  a  strong  tie.  He  was  a 
man  used  to  getting  what  he  wanted, 
and  when  he  became  bewitched  —  can't 
you  see  how  it  would  all  work  together? 
I  know  Lucretia  thinks  there  is  no  ex 
cuse  for  Desire.  But  I  see  this  excuse 
for  her.  None  of  us  ever  trained  her 
to  know  she  could  n't  have  everything 
she  wanted.  Of  course,  we  never  ex- 


go     THE    LONG   INHERITANCE 

pected  her  to  want  anything  but  the 
finest,  the  highest.  But  she  is  human, 
and  when  she  found  a  most  wonderful 
thing  in  her  path  that  she  wanted  more 
than  she  had  ever  wanted  anything  be 
fore —  she  put  out  her  hand  to  take  it, 
as  she  had  taken  other  things  when  we 
were  all  applauding  her  choice.  And 
I  will  do  her  the  justice  to  say  that  I 
don't  believe  she  has  the  faintest  no 
tion  Arnold  will  really  fight  to  keep  the 
children.  You  see,  she  still  thinks  the 
world  is  hers." 

"  Perhaps  it  is,"  I  offered.  The  com 
fort  of  Mary's  presence  was  beginning 
to  rest  and  appease  me,  and  I  was  a 
little  less  conscious  of  my  aching  con 
science.  "The  Westerner — is  he  — 
is  he  —  " 

"  Perfectly  presentable.  Quite  a 
scholar.  Collects  pictures.  Has  all 
kinds  of  notions.  He  and  Desire  are 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE     91 

ideally  congenial.  Very  properly  he  is 
keeping  himself  at  long  distance  and 
entirely  out  of  it.  No  one  but  ourselves 
surmises  that  he  exists.  And  it  really 
is  an  enormous  fortune.  I  can  imagine 
Desire  doing  all  kinds  of  interesting 
things  with  it." 

"  Do  you  know  what  Lucretia  said 
to  me,  Mary  ? " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  You,  too?  Can  money  buy  you, 
too?"  I  quoted.  "I  shall  never  for 
get  how  Lucretia  looked  as  she  said 
it." 

"Stub  —  the  world  moves.  It  may 
be  moving  in  the  wrong  direction,  but 
if  we  don't  move  with  it,  we  are  bound 
to  be  left  behind." 

"  Mary  Greening,"  I  retorted,  "  do 
you  really  mean  that  you  detect  in 
yourself  a  willingness  to  have  an  un 
justified  divorce  and  a  huge,  vulgar 


92     THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

fortune  in  the  family,  just  because  they 
are  up  to  date  ? " 

"  Benjamin  Raynie,  if  down  at  the 
bottom  of  my  soul  there  is  crawling  and 
sneaking  a  microscopical  acquiescence 
in  the  muddle  Desire  is  making  of  life, 
it  is  probably  due  to  the  reason  you 
mention.  I  am  just  as  ashamed  of  it  as 
I  can  be !  I  ought  to  be  plunged  in  grief, 
like  Lucretia.  And  I  am — only  —  well, 
I  want  to  help  Desire,  and  I  can't  help 
her  if  I  let  myself  feel  like  that.  I  sup 
pose  you  '11  think  I  'm  an  unmoral  old 
thing,  but  I  see  it  this  way :  if  these 
affairs  are  going  to  happen  in  one's 
very  own  family,  one  might  as  well  put 
them  through  with  a  high  hand.  I  in 
tend  to  stand  by  Desire.  Of  course  the 
Ackroyds  will  do  the  same  by  Arnold. 
Desire  will  never  be  received  in  this 
town  again  with  their  consent.  They 
are  entirely  in  the  right.  But  I  shall 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE    93 

have  to  fight  them  for  Desire's  sake, 
just  the  same." 

"  Stubby  !  Stubby  !  There  is  n't  a 
particle  of  logic  as  big  as  a  pin-head 
about  you,  and  I  don't  approve  of  you 
at  all  —  but  I  do  like  you  tremen 
dously  ! " 

Mary  Greeningrose  abruptly,  crossed 
to  the  window,  and  stood  looking  out 
for  a  time.  Then  she  came  back  and, 
dropping  awkwardly  beside  my  chair, 
buried  her  convulsed  and  quivering 
face  in  the  woolly  sleeve  of  my  jacket, 
while  the  tears  dripped  fast  from  her 
overflowing  eyes. 

"  Stub,"  she  brought  out  jerkily,  be 
tween  her  sudden  choking  sobs,  "  I 
did  n't  make  a  long  face  and  tell  De 
sire  '  whom  God  hath  joined  '  —  I  — 
I  tried  to  appeal  to  her  common  sense. 
Irreligious  people  often  do  have  a 
great  deal  of  common  sense,  you  know. 


94    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

But —  I  am  the  child  of  our  fathers, 
too.  I  wish  —  I  wish  she  would  n't  do 
it!" 

IV 

I  CERTAINLY  expected  that  Desire 
would  come  to  me  before  she  went 
away.  I  don't  know  what  good  I 
thought  it  would  do.  But  we  had  al 
ways  (or  I  supposed  so)  been  such 
friends,  this  niece  and  I,  that  I  could 
not  believe  she  would  take  such  an  im 
portant  step  without  an  effort  to  gain 
my  approval  —  my  toleration  would  be 
more  accurate.  I  —  well,  I  thought  she 
cared  for  my  approval.  But  it  seemed 
she  did  n't. 

Of  course,  when  one  came  to  think 
it  over,  she  could  hardly  enjoy  such  an 
interview.  No  doubt  she  was  already 
sore  in  spirit  from  interviews  she  could 
not  shirk,  —  with  her  mother,  for  in- 


THE    LONG    INHERITANCE     95 

stance,  not  to  mention  her  husband. 
And  my  views  on  promiscuous  divorce 
are  as  well  known  in  the  family  as  are 
those  of  South  Carolina.  They  are 
simple,  those  views,  and  old-fashioned, 
but  also,  I  may  add,  cosmic ;  they  run 
about  as  follows :  it  is  hard  that  John 
and  Mary  should  be  unhappy,  but  bet 
ter  their  discomfort  than  that  society 
should  totter  to  a  fall,  since  all  civ 
ilization  rests  upon  the  single  insti 
tution  of  the  marriage  tie.  I  will  ad 
mit  that  my  bachelor  state  doubtless 
helps  to  keep  my  opinions  uncompli 
cated. 

When  I  came  to  think  of  it  in  the 
light  of  these  convictions,  it  was  n't 
remarkable  that  Desire  stayed  away. 
And  yet  the  foolish  old  uncle  in  me 
was  hurt  that  she  did  so.  I  felt  that 
she  ought  to  come  and  take  her  medi 
cine.  Did  n't  thirty  years  of  affection 


g6     THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

and  indulgence  give  me  some  rights 
in  her  life  ? 

Perhaps  Mary  Greening  told  her 
how  I  felt.  At  all  events,  in  place  of  a 
call  I  received  a  letter :  - 

DEAR  UNCLE  BEN,  — 

The  reason  I  'm  not  coming  to  say 
good-bye  to  you  is  that  I  think  you  '11 
love  me  better  if  I  don't.  My  self-con 
trol  is  wearing  quite  thin  in  spots,  and 
I  'm  so  tired  of  explaining  myself  (when 
there  's  nothing  to  explain  except  that 
I  am  doing  what  seems  right  in  my 
own  eyes)  that  sometimes  I  think  I 
shall  just  die  before  I  get  started. 

Uncle  Ben,  did  n't  you  ever  long  for 
a  life  that  fitted  you  exactly, — a  life 
that  was  the  flexible,  soft  garment  of 
your  very  Self  ?  I  am  laying  aside  a  life 
that  is  somewhat  cumbrous  for  me,  and 
going  to  one  that, fits  me  like  a  glove. 


THE    LONG   INHERITANCE     97 

And  it  is  n't  as  if  my  case  were  like 
other  people's,  or  as  if  Arthur  Mark- 
ham  was  n't  the  finest  of  the  fine.  He 
is  as  good  in  his  widely  different  way 
as  Arnold  is.  I  think  myself  a  highly 
fortunate  woman  that  two  such  lives 
are  offered  me  to  choose  from  —  but 
I  must  choose  the  one  that  belongs 
to  me.  Temperament  is  destiny.  I  am 
following  mine.  I  am  doing  what  I 
wish  to  do.  But  I  don't  like  the  way 
people  hinder  me  with  arguments  that 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  real  con 
tent  of  the  matter.  So  I  am  saying 
good-bye  at  arm's  length  to  the  dearest 
old  make-believe  cynic  of  an  uncle 
that  ever  lived.  Because  you  know, 
Uncle  Ben,  that  if  you  had  me  there 
you  could  n't  help  preaching  to  me, 
and  I  am  tired  of  preaching.  It  does  n't 
get  one  anywhere.  And  it  does  n't 
keep  one  away — from  Reno,  Nevada. 


g8     THE    LONG   INHERITANCE 

I  suppose  it's  a  queer  thing  to  say 
but,  really,  you'll  like  Arthur  just  as 
well  as  you  do  Arnold  —  if  only  you 
can  bring  your  mind  to  it ! 
I  am  always,  even  in  Nevada, 

Your  loving. niece, 

DESIRE. 

I  turned  this  letter  over  curiously  in 
my  hands,  half  expecting  it  to  impart 
to  me  the  secret  of  how  it  was  that 
people  could  think  and  feel  as  if  the 
very  universe  wheeled,  glittering,  about 
them  and  their  desires.  Also,  how 
could  Desire  be  so  guiltless  of  all  the 
thousand  scruples  and  delicacies  that 
were  her  birthright  ?  How  could  she 
exhibit  such  poverty  of  spirit,  bravely 
and  unashamed?  How  did  it  happen 
that  she,  of  all  people,  showed  herself 
so  ignorant  of  the  things  that  cannot 
be  learned  ? 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE    99 

V 

THAT  evening  as  I  drowsed  over 
the  hearth  after  dinner,  still  holding 
Desire's  letter  in  my  hand  and  pon 
dering  over  it,  the  card  of  young  Dr. 
Arnold  Ackroyd  was  brought  up  to  me. 

I  awoke  myself  with  a  start.  An  in 
terview  with  Desire's  husband  was  the 
last  thing  in  the  world  I  wanted.  The 
feeling  that  I  had  vicariously  injured 
the  Ackroyds  was  still  strong  upon 
me,  and  I  shrank  childishly  from  fac 
ing  a  man  whom  I  could  not  think  of 
otherwise  than  as  a  maimed  and  wan 
tonly  injured  creature. 

Feeling  this,  I  naturally  welcomed 
him  with  a  mixture  of  embarrassment 
and  effusion.  Dr.  Arnold  smiled  dryly, 
with  perfect  comprehension,  and  took 
his  seat  beside  the  fire  in  the  same 
winged  armchair  that  had  sheltered 


ioo     THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

Lucretiaand  Mary  previously.  A  fancy 
seized  me  that  the  cumbersome,  com 
fortable  piece  of  mahogany  and  old 
brocade  might  indeed  be  a  veritable 
witness-seat,  a  Chair  of  Truth,  that  in 
some  fashion  impelled  its  occupant 
to  speak  out  from  the  heart  the  thing 
he  really  thought.  An  apprehensive 
glance  at  Arnold's  grave,  clear-cut, 
sallow  face  reassured  me.  It  held  no 
threat  of  hysteric  protest.  Whatever 
he  might  say,  I  need  not  fear  that  he 
would  break  the  inmost  silence  of  a 
deeply  humiliated  man. 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  business  that  I 
want  to  see  you  about,  Mr.  Raynie," 
he  said  easily.  "  There  is  no  one  but 
you  who  can  manage  it  for  me." 

I  expressed  my  desire  to  serve  him. 

"You  see,  it  is  just  this:  if  Desire 
insists  upon  divorcing  me  the  enter 
prise  must  be  properly  financed.  I 


THE    LONG   INHERITANCE     101 

prefer  to  pay  her  expenses  myself.  I 
am  not  going  to  have  her  hard  up  or 
—  depending  upon  any  one  else." 

"  Desire  would  never  take  money 
from  any  one  but  Mrs.  Greening  or 
me,  Ackroyd." 

"  No  —  I  suppose  not.  Still,  you 
never  can  tell  how  these  confounded 
modern  women  are  going  to  invert 
things  in  their  minds.  She'd  not  doit 
unless  she  could  make  it  look  high- 
minded  and  self-sacrificing,  of  course. 
But  I  would  rather  she  ran  no  risk  of 
doing  it.  And,  if  you  don't  mind  my 
saying  so,  I  would  also  prefer  at  pre 
sent  that  even  you  and  Mrs.  Greening 
kept  your  hands  out  of  your  pockets. 
You  see,  Desire  is  my  wife  until  she 
ceases  to  be  so.  It  is  unquestionably 
my  right  to  provide  for  her,  even  in 
Reno,  if  I  choose.  Of  course,  she 
would  say  that,  having  left  my  bed  and 


102     THE    LONG   INHERITANCE 

board,  she  had  renounced  her  claim 
upon  my  bank  account  —  that  is,  she 
would  say  it  if  she  thought  about  the 
matter  at  all.  But  she  is  so  heedless 
she  will  probably  not  question  the 
source  of  supplies,  certainly  not  if  they 
come  through  you.  Will  you  do  me 
this  favor,  Mr.  Raynie  ?  " 

There  was  nothing  for  me  to  do  but 
assent,  but  I  did  so  a  little  irritably. 
It  seemed  to  me  at  the  moment  that 
it  would  be  excellent  discipline  to  let 
the  winds  of  heaven  beat  harshly  upon 
Desire's  delicately  guarded  head,  for  a 
short  time  at  least.  I  intimated  as  much. 

Arnold  Ackroyd  shook  his  head. 

"  It  is  too  late  for  that  kind  of  dis 
cipline  to  be  effective,"  he  said.  "  I 
have  meant  that  Desire  should  have 
everything  that  a  man  can  give,  but 
there  is  one  point  I  will  never  yield. 
She  shall  not  have  my  children ! " 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE     103 

He  took  out  his  checkbook  and  his 
pen,  and,  writing  on  his  knee,  filled 
out  a  check  rapidly  and  neatly. 

As  he  handed  it  to  me  I  noted  that 
the  sum  was  surprisingly  large,  — 
enough  for  a  divorce  de  luxe.  "  Pardon 
me,  but  are  n't  you  overdoing  your 
generosity,  Arnold?"  I  suggested. 

He  moved  his  shoulders  very  slightly, 
and  I  saw  his  fine,  surgeon's  fingers 
stir  as  though  he  were  involuntarily 
washing  his  hands  of  the  whole  ques 
tion  of  money. 

"  Desire  is  accustomed  to  beauty  as 
well  as  to  comfort,"  he  said.  Then  he 
dropped  his  head  on  his  chest  and 
stared  gravely  into  the  fire.  "  Mr.  Ray- 
nie,  what  do  the  women  want  ?  What 
do  they  expect  in  this  world,  anyhow  ? 
If  the  sun  had  dropped  out  of  the  sky, 
it  wouldn't  have  surprised  me  more 
than  this  thing  has." 


104    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

"  Nor  me,"  I  confessed. 

"  I  have  been  wondering  if  I  uncon 
sciously  neglected  Desire  ?  People  say 
that  sometimes  causes  them  to  fly  the 
track.  I  am  a  busy  man.  I  work  hard 
in  an  exacting  profession.  But,  as  I 
understand  the  marriage  contract,  my 
work  is  a  part  of  what  I  endowed  her 
with.  It  is  my  life,  myself.  We  are  not 
children.  One  does  not  marry  for  a 
playmate,  does  one?  But  perhaps 
women  do.  Do  you  think  I  can  have 
been  at  fault  in  this  matter?" 

My  only  answer  was  an  impatient 
snort  of  protest. 

"  I  supposed  she  desired  companion 
ship  with  me  as  I  am.  Certainly  that 
was  what  I  thought  I  asked  of  her. 
She  has  such  a  way  of  making  life 
seem  vivid  and  interesting  that  her 
companionship  was  good  to  have,"  he 
said. 


THE    LONG    INHERITANCE    105 

Something  clutched  at  my  heart 
strings  as  I  saw  the  look  of  inextin 
guishable  longing  in  his  eyes. 

"  We  spoiled  her  between  us,  I  sus 
pect,"  he  said.  "  On  our  heads  be  it, 
for  it  is  spoiled  that  she  is.  Mr.  Ray- 
nie,  I  think  of  Desire  as  undisciplined, 
wayward  —  not  as  wanton.  —  Well, 
I  have  a  dozen  patients  yet  to  see 
to-night.  I  must  say  good  night,  and 
thank  you." 

As  he  closed  the  door,  I  spoke  aloud 
to  myself  and  the  witness-chair. 

"There  goes  a  gentleman,"  I  said. 
"  It  seems  they  still  exist.  Confound 
that  niece  of  mine  ! " 


VI 

AFTER  Desire  departed  for  Reno, 

the  winter  dragged  along,  heavy-footed. 

Mary  Greening  heard  from  her  often, 


io6     THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

and  brought  me  the  letters.  She  rented 
a  cottage  in  Reno,  and  began  house 
keeping  bravely,  but,  presently,  the 
servant  question  drove  her  tempora 
rily  to  a  hotel. 

Very  shortly  we  saw  in  the  papers  an 
account  of  a  fire  in  the  same  hotel.  This 
was  followed  by  a  telegram  from  Desire 
to  the  effect  that  she  was  as  right  as 
possible,  and  had  only  suffered  the  loss 
of  a  few  garments. 

A  week  later  as  I  sat  in  my  usual 
place,  the  wheeled  chair  by  the  study 
fire,  I  heard  a  carriage  stop  at  my  door. 
It  was  ten  o'clock  of  a  wild  January 
night,  furious  with  wind  and  snow. 
There  were  voices  in  the  hall  below ; 
surprised  ejaculations  from  Lena,  the 
housemaid ;  at  last  a  rap  on  my  door, 
which  swung  inward  to  admit  —  De 
sire! 

"  Will  you  take  me  in,  Uncle  Ben?" 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE     107 

she  inquired  cheerfully.  "  It  is  such  a 
frightful  night !  The  cabman  won't  try 
to  get  me  to  Aunt  Mary.  He  wanted 
to  leave  me  at  a  hotel.  But  this  was 
no  farther — and  I  wanted  to  talk  with 
you,  anyhow." 

I  said  the  appropriate  things,  con 
sumed  meanwhile  with  wonder  as  to 
what  this  reappearance  meant.  Desire 
threw  off  her  long  wrap  and  her  furs, 
vibrated  about  the  room  a  little,  then 
settled,  like  every  one  else,  in  the 
winged  chair  across  the  hearth,  and 
smiled  at  me  tremulously. 

"  Uncle  Ben,  something  has  hap 
pened  to  me." 

"  I  judge  it  is  something  important, 
Desire." 

"  A  big  thing,"  she  said  gravely. 
"  So  big  I  don't  understand  it.  I  can 
only  tell  you  how  it  is." 

I  waited  quietly,  but  there  was  that 


io8     THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

in  her  voice  which  made  me  catch  my 
breath. 

She  seemed  to  find  it  hard  to  begin. 

"  I  hated  Reno,"  she  said  at  last, 
abruptly.  "  The  streets  were  so  full  of 
plump,  self-satisfied  blonde  women, 
overdressed  and  underbred.  The  town 
was  overrun  with  types  one  did  n't  like. 
It  was  —  horrid  !  But  it  did  n't  con 
cern  me,  so  I  stayed  in  the  little  house 
and  wrote  a  great  many  letters  to  Aunt 
Mary  and  —  Arthur  Markham,  and 
read,  and  amused  myself  as  best  I 
could.  Then  I  lost  my  maids  and 
moved  to  the  hotel  until  I  could  ar 
range  matters. 

"You  heard  about  the  fire?  The 
hotel  was  a  wooden  building  with 
two  wings,  and  my  room  was  in  the 
wing  that  burned.  It  was  all  very 
exciting,  but  I  got  out  with  my  valu 
ables  and  most  of  my  wardrobe  tied 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE     log 

up  in  a  sheet,  and  they  put  the  fire 
out. 

"  The  rest  of  the  building  was  un 
hurt,  so  the  occupants  opened  their 
doors  to  the  people  who  had  been 
burned  out.  The  manager  asked  me  if 
I  would  accept  the  hospitality  of  a 
Mrs.  Marshall,  '  a  very  nice  lady  from 
up  North  ! '  I  said  I  would  be  thank 
ful  for  shelter  of  any  description,  so  he 
took  me  to  her  door  and  introduced 
us." 

Desire  paused  reflectively. 

"  I  'd  like  to  make  it  as  clear  as  pos 
sible  to  you,  Uncle  Ben,  if  you  don't 
mind  my  talking  a  lot.  This  Mrs.  Mar 
shall  was  just  a  girl,  and  very  good- 
looking  indeed  in  a  way.  She  had  well- 
cut  features,  a  strong  chin,  blue  eyes 
under  dark  lashes,  and  a  great  deal  of 
vitality.  So  far  as  looks  went,  I  might 
have  met  her  anywhere. 


no    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

"  The  big  room  was  strewn  with  her 
things,  for  she  had  expected  to  be 
burned  out,  too ;  but  she  began  to  put 
them  away  at  once,  offering  me  closet 
room,  and  talking  excitedly  as  she 
moved  about. 

"  The  place  was  full  of  department- 
store  luxury,  if  you  know  what  I  mean. 
Her  toilet-table  was  loaded  with  sil 
ver  in  a  pattern  of  flamboyant,  curly 
cupids,  —  I  Ve  often  wondered  who 
bought  such  things,  —  and  there  were 
gorgeous,  gaudy  garments  lying  about. 
Her  belongings,  all  but  a  few  frocks, 
were  expensive  and  tasteless  to  the  last 
degree.  So  much  extravagance  and  so 
little  beauty !  It  seemed  so  strange  to 
me  that  it  was  interesting. 

"  She  talked  a  good  deal,  showing  me 
this  and  that.  Her  slangy  speech  had 
a  certain  piquancy,  because  she  looked 
finer  than  her  words.  She  was  abso- 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE     in 

lutely  sure  of  herself,  and  at  ease.  I 
made  out  that  this  was  because  she  was 
conscious  of  no  standards  save  those 
of  money,  and  there,  as  she  would  have 
said,  she  could  '  deliver  the  goods.' 
Were  n't  the  evidences  of  her  worth 
right  under  my  eyes? 

"  I  talked,  too,  as  effusively  as  I  knew 
how.  I  tried  to  meet  her  halfway.  She 
was  evidently  a  perfectly  well-placed 
and  admired  person  in  her  own  world. 
I  was  excited  and  tired  and  lonely.  It 
seemed  good  just  to  speak  to  some  one. 

"  Presently  the  room  was  cleared, 
and  we  began  to  think  of  sleeping.  I 
have  n't  forgotten  a  word  of  the  con 
versation  that  followed. 

" '  It 's  very  good  of  you  to  take  me 
in.  I  hope  I  shan't  disturb  you  very 
much,'  I  said. 

" '  Oh,  I  'm  glad  to  have  somebody 
to  talk  to.  I  think  this  living  in  Reno 


H2    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

is  deadly,  but  it  seems  to  be  the  easi 
est  way  to  get  results,'  she  answered. 
'  How  long  you  been  here  ? ' 

"  I  told  her. 

"'Well,  I  'm  a  good  deal  nearer  my 
freedom  than  you  are.  Don't  it  seem 
perfectly  ridiculous  that  when  you 
want  to  shake  a  man  you  can't  just 
shake  him,  without  all  this  to-do?'  she 
said.  '  It  makes  me  so  mad  to  think 
I  've  got  to  stay  down  here  six  months 
by  myself,  just  to  get  rid  of  Jim  Mar 
shall!  Say,  what  does  your  husband 
do?' 

"  What  could  I  say,  Uncle  Ben  ?  It 
seemed  sacrilegious  to  mention  Arnold 
in  that  room,  but  I  was  her  guest  and 
dependent  upon  her  for  shelter  and  a 
bed. 

" '  He  is  a  doctor,'  I  said. 

u  '  That  so  ?  Jim  's  superintendent 
of  a  mine.  Up  in  the  mountains.  It 's 


THE    LONG   INHERITANCE     113 

the  lonesomest  place  you  ever  saw. 
Twenty  miles  from  nowhere,  with  just 
a  little  track  running  down  to  the  rail 
road,  and  nothing  worth  mentioning 
when  you  get  there. 

"  '  Jim  was  awfully  gone  on  me.  Put 
up  a  spiel  that  he  could  n't  live  with 
out  me,  and  all  that.  That  was  two 
years  ago,  and  I  was  young  and  tender 
hearted.  Father  had  just  dropped  a 
whole  bunch  of  money,  and  I  thought, 
4  Well,  if  any  man  wants  to  pay  my 
bills  as  bad  as  that,  I  guess  I  '11  let  him.' 
It  looked  like  easy  meal-tickets  to  me. 
Say!  There  's  no  such  thing  as  a  soft 
snap  in  married  life.  You  got  to  work 
for  your  living,  whoever  he  is.  And  I 
got  so  bored  up  in  the  mountains  I 
did  n't  know  what  to  do.  Any  man  's 
a  bore  if  you  see  too  much  of  him. 
Jim 's  awful  soft —  wants  to  be  babied 
all  the  time.  Thought  I  did  n't  love 


ii4    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

him  unless  I  looked  just  so  and  talked 
just  so.  Jerusalem!  How  can  you  love 
anybody  when  you  're  a  hundred  miles 
from  a  matinee?  People  have  got  to 
have  what  they  're  used  to,  even  if  they 
are  married,  and  that 's  a  cinch.  I  used 
to  go  down  to  the  city  by  myself  once 
in  a  while  to  visit  Jim's  sister,  but  there 
was  n't  anything  in  that.  She  and  I 
did  n't  get  on.  She  never  took  me  to 
a  show  once  all  the  time  I  was  there. 
These  in-laws  are  always  looking  at 
you  through  a  microscope.  Ain't  it  aw 
ful?  I  don't  claim  my  complexion  will 
stand  that  scrutiny.  Did  you  have  any 
in-laws?' 

" '  A  few,'  I  said,  thinking  how  Ma 
dam  Ackroyd  would  look  if  she  could 
hear  this  conversation. 

"  '  Well,  anybody  can  have  mine ! ' 
she  said.  '  Gee !  How  I  hate  to  be  bored  I 
I  guess  I  'd  be  up  on  that  mountain  yet 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE     115 

if  it  hadn't  been  for  that.  Last  spring 
the  son  of  the  man  who  owns  the  mine 
took  to  coming  up  to  see  about  the  out 
put.  I  had  him  going  in  forty  winks. 
I  was  just  amusing  myself,  but  Jim 
got  frightfully  jealous.  "  See  here,"  I 
says,  "  I  ain't  going  to  let  no  mining 
man  dictate  to  me,  see  ?  I  '11  tell  you 
that  right  now!"  I  was  sore.  To  think 
he  could  n't  let  me  have  a  bit  of  fun, 
after  the  stupid  winter  I  'd  put  in,  fry 
ing  his  bacon.  It  seemed  plain  selfish. 
So  things  ran  along,  and  I  got  huffier 
and  huffier.  Finally,  when  Joe  volun 
teered  he  'd  like  to  put  up  for  me  to 
take  this  trip  to  Reno,  I  packed  my 
suit-case  and  came  away.  It  served 
Jim  right  for  being  such  an  old  grouch. 
What  d'  you  think  ? ' 

"  I  just  opened  my  mouth  and  gasped. 
I  could  n't  help  it.  Such  callousness ! 

"  The  girl  looked  at  me  queerly  when 


n6     THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

I  did  n't  answer.  'What 's  got  you  that 
you  did  n't  stay  put  ? '  she  demanded. 
'  Here  I  've  had  a  rush  of  words  to  the 
mouth  and  told  you  all  I  know  —  and 
I  don't  know  a  thing  about  you.' 

"  I  found  my  voice  sufficiently  to 
tell  her  my  case  was  very  different. 

" '  Huh  ! '  she  said,  '  I  may  n't  know 
much,  but  I  'm  wise  to  this ;  the  folks 
that  have  real  reasons  for  a  smash-up 
don't  have  to  come  to  Reno.  .They 
mostly  can  get  their  papers  on  the  spot. 
I  guess  we  're  all  in  the  same  boat  out 
here.  We  're  just  taking  what  we  want.' 

"  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  struck  with  a 
sledge-hammer  when  she  said  that,  and 
her  eyes  seemed  to  be  boring  through 
me  like  gimlets.  I  thought  I  should 
scream  if  she  said  another  word. 

" '  Let 's  talk  about  it  in  the  morn 
ing,'  I  said, '  if  you  '11  excuse  me.  I  'm  so 
tired  I  simply  can't  keep  my  eyes  open.' 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE     117 

"  That  was  n't  true.  She  went  to 
sleep  almost  instantly,  and  slept  like 
a  baby.  I  lay  beside  her,  wide  awake 
for  hours.  What  she  was,  and  what  she 
said,  had  turned  a  key  in  my  brain.  A 
host  of  thoughts  I  didn't  know  I  had 
came  trooping  out  of  some  hidden 
room,  and  they  marched  and  counter 
marched  across  my  mind  all  night." 

Desire  got  up  and  began  to  walk 
about  the  room  restlessly  in  her  ab 
sorption  as  she  recalled  all  this. 

"  It  was  wonderful,  Uncle  Ben.  I 
wish  I  could  make  you  understand. 
First  of  all,  I  recognized  that  what  she 
said  was  absolutely  true.  I  said  to 
myself,  '  Desire,  you  are  a  civilized, 
cultivated,  mature,  distinguished-look 
ing  person,  well  born  and  well  reared 
—  but  what  has  it  all  done  for  you?  It 
has,  precisely,  conducted  you  to  Reno, 
Nevada.  This  girl  beside  you  is  un- 


ii8    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

civilized,  uneducated,  crude,  young, 
clearly  of  very  common  clay.  And  what 
has  it  all  done  for  her  but  conduct  her 
to  Reno,  Nevada,  —  where  she  finds 
you,  daughter  of  the  Pilgrims.  Well 
met,  sister!' 

"  It  was  very  bitter  to  think  that  of 
myself,"  said  my  niece,  stopping  by  my 
chair.  "  It  may  sound  foolish,  Uncle 
Ben,  but  my  friends  have  always  in 
sisted  I  was  a  sch'one  Seele.  I,  a  beau 
tiful  soul !  I,  a  soul  at  all !  A  white 
light  that  I  could  not  shut  my  eyes 
against  seemed  to  beat  down  into  my 
brain.  I  saw  that  I  was  just  like  the 
girl  beside  me  in  her  incredible  callous 
ness,  —  even  like  the  fat,  self-satisfied, 
blonde  women  I  had  seen  in  the  town. 
Oh,  those  common,  common  people !  I 
had  thought  myself  as  fine  as  silk,  as 
tempered  as  steel,  yes,  and  as  pure  as 
flame!  But  I,  too,  was  a  brute. 


THE    LONG   INHERITANCE     ng 

"  I  thought  and  thought.  I  thought 
of  Arnold,  Arthur,  and  myself;  we  are 
all  proud,  we  are  all  fastidious,  yet  we 
had  come  to  this.  We  had  drifted  on 
the  rocks.  Pride  had  n't  saved  us,  nor 
training,  nor  intelligence.  I  had  lived 
in  and  for  these  things,  and  they  had 
not  prevented  my  doing  the  common 
est  things  like  the  commonest  creat 
ures.  Uncle  Ben,  I  seemed  horrible 
to  myself  —  I  can't  tell  you. 

"  More  doors  opened  in  my  mind,  and 
I  began  to  think  of  you,  and  mother, 
and  Aunt  Mary,  and  of  all  the  stories 
you  used  to  tell  me  of  the  good  Raynies 
and  the  bad,  the  weak  Withacres  and 
the  strong  ones,  and  what  good  fighters 
there  were  among  them.  And  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  could  see  and  feel  —  like 
the  flight  of  wings  in  the  dark  over  my 
head  —  the  passing  of  the  struggling 
generations  of  my  fathers,  each  one 


120    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

achieving  a  little  more ;  going  from  de 
cency  to  good  repute,  and  from  repute 
to  renown,  keeping  faith  with  one  an 
other  and  with  God,  from  father  to 
son. 

"  And  all  at  once  I  saw  that  the  dig 
nity  of  my  race  did  not  consist  in  its 
honors,  nor  even  in  its  character,  but 
—  forever  and  always  —  in  its  fight 
for  character!  It  was  the  struggle 
that  had  made  us.  And  I  had  never 
struggled  —  so  —  I  was  not  made.  I 
was  still  unformed,  shapeless,  —  and  a 
cheaper  thing  with  all  my  pretensions 
than  the  girl  asleep  beside  me. 

"  Then  there  came  on  me  a  great  de 
sire  to  be  one  with  my  own  people.  One 
life  is  nothing — somehow  I  saw  it  very 
clearly.  Families  build  righteousness 
as  coral  insects  build  a  reef.  I  felt  the 
yearning  to  be  built  into  a  structure  of 
honesty  and  honor.  Even  as  I  wished 


THE    LONG   INHERITANCE     121 

this,  I  saw,  in  that  fierce  light  beating 
down  upon  my  brain,  that  there  was 
something  deep  within  me  that  forbade 
me  to  do  the  thing  I  had  been  planning. 
It  lay  at  the  core  of  being,  dark  and 
stern ;  it  said  No  to  my  desires.  And 
I  knew  it  for  the  strength  of  every 
No  my  fathers  ever  uttered.  It  was 
my  inheritance.  And  as  I  looked,  it 
seized  my  will.  It  shook  me  free  from 
my  longing  for  Arthur,  free  from  my 
impatience  with  Arnold,  free  from  my 
wish  to  have  my  way ! 

"So  —  I  have  come  back.  It  was 
strong  enough  to  bring  me  back;  it  is 
strong  enough  to  hold  me  here.  I 
don't  care  what  happens  to  me  after 
this.  /  dorit  care.  I  may  not  be  happy, 
but  I  don't  seem  to  want  to  be  happy: 
I  want  to  do  the  seemly,  fitting  things, 
the  decent  things.  I  don't  care  if  they 
are  stupid ;  I  don't  care  if  I  am  bored! 


122     THE    LONG   INHERITANCE 

I  wish  just  what  I  say.  I  want  to  be 
one  with  my  race.  It  is  they  who  have 
brought  me  back.  They  held  up  the 
torch.  I  let  it  fall.  Uncle  Ben,  do  you 
think  it  has  gone  out?  Suppose  one  of 
my  children's  children  should  stumble 
and  then  say,  '  It  is  not  my  fault.  I  in 
herited  this.  There  was  grandmamma 
who  went  her  willful  way  so  long  ago ! ' 
I  know  my  dust  would  shiver  in  the 
ground.  I  can't  add  any  more  to  the 
weaknesses  and  follies  that  will  crush 
them  down.  Having  my  own  way 
costs  too  much  when  they  must  pay. 
That 's  it.  I  have  n't  the  price.  I  re 
fuse  to  let  them  pay.  —  Will  you  help 
me,  Uncle  Ben  ?  Will  you  ask  Ar 
nold  to  let  me  try  again  ?  I  will  be 
good.  I  will  be  humble  —  almost!  For 
I  must  have  my  children  if  only  that  I 
may  pass  this  on.  The  thing  is  to 
abolish  our  complacency.  Why —  it's 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE     123 

what  the  old  religionists  meant  when 
they  talked  about  getting  down  in  the 
dust  before  their  God  !  It  really,  really, 
is  the  thing  we  have  to  do.  And  —  my 
children  will  never  learn  it  here,  among 
you,  where  everybody  is  so  happy  and 
self-satisfied.  They  will  never  learn  it 
even  from  the  righteous  Arnold.  If 
they  know  it,  they  will  have  to  learn  it 
from  me  —  for  I  am  the  only  repentant 
sinner  of  us  all !  So  —  I  have  come 
back." 

Desire's  words  stirred  me  strangely. 
I  had  sometimes  suspected  that  I  al 
lowed  my  modest  pride  of  descent  to 
feed  complacency  rather  than  effort. 
As  she  talked,  I,  too,  saw  the  long  pro 
cession  of  the  valiant  men  and  women 
of  my  race  moving  forward  through  the 
years;  I  saw  how  I  had  lightly  arro 
gated  credit  to  myself  for  their  hard- 
won  excellencies,  and  reckoned  my- 


124    THE   LONG   INHERITANCE 

self  a  finer  gentleman  for  the  battles 
they  had  fought.  Where  were  my  bat 
tles  ?  Where  my  victories  ? 

Then  -  -  I  remembered  that  the 
Withacres  always  could  talk  like  angels 
from  heaven.  But  I  looked  into  De 
sire's  eyes,  and  that  thought  shriveled 
before  the  flame  in  them.  They  met 
mine  exultantly,  as  steel  meets  steel. 
This  was  no  lip  eloquence.  She  was 
eager  for  her  battles. 

"  So,"  I  said  with  wonder, "  you  have 
capitulated  —  to  Them." 

"  Yes  —  to  Them.  Oh,  it  is  n't  need 
ful,  Uncle  Ben,  that  to  show  my  kin 
ship  I  should  work  as  they  did,  live  as 
plainly,  think  as  narrowly.  It  is  all 
here  just  the  same.  I  am  their  child. 
I  will  not  go  against  their  will.  Before 
ever  I  was  born,  they  wrote  their  de 
sires  in  my  flesh.  They  made  the  blood 
to  flow  in  my  veins  after  their  ways. 


THE   LONG   INHERITANCE     125 

And  —  I  am  glad  !  For  my  children 
shall  be  their  children.  —  Uncle  Ben, 
will  Arnold  take  me  home  ? " 

I  looked  at  Desire's  glowing  face  that 
seemed  afire  with  aspiration  for  the 
life  she  had  tossed  aside.  I  thought  of 
Arnold's  grave  lips,  steady  shoulders, 
and  longing  eyes.  There  fell  upon  me 
a  vivid  sense  of  the  wonderful  ingenu 
ity  and  richness  of  life's  long  processes. 
This  diverse  pair  had  traveled  devious 
ways  to  the  end  that,  after  all  their 
married  years,  they  might  at  last  be  not 
unequally  mated.  My  elderly  heart 
sang  a  canticle  of  rejoicing,  but  my 
speech  was  circumspect. 

"  I  incline  to  believe  that  he  will,"  I 
admitted. 


CLARISSA'S  OWN  CHILD 


CLARISSA'S  OWN  CHILD 
I 

IT  was  half-past  three  o'clock  on  a 
Tuesday  afternoon  in  April  when 
Associate  Professor  Charleroy  (of 
the  Midwest  University  at  Powelton) 
learned  that  he  was  to  lose  his  wife 
and  home. 

For  April,  the  day  was  excessively 
hot.  The  mercury  stood  at  eighty-nine 
degrees  on  the  stuffy  little  east  porch 
of  the  Charleroy  home.  There  was  no 
ice  in  the  refrigerator,  the  house-clean 
ing  was  not  finished,  and  the  screens 
were  not  in.  The  discomfort  of  the 
untimely  heat  was  very  great. 

Clarissa  Charleroy,  tired,  busy,  and 
flushed  of  face,  knew  that  she  was 
nervous  to  the  point  of  hysteria.  This 


i3o     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

condition  always  gave  her  a  certain 
added  clearness  of  vision  and  fluency 
of  speech  which  her  husband,  with 
justice,  had  learned  to  dread.  Indeed, 
she  dreaded  it  herself.  In  such  moods 
she  often  created  for  herself  situations 
which  she  afterwards  found  irksome. 
She  quite  sincerely  wished  herself  one 
of  the  women  whom  fatigue  makes 
quiet  and  sodden,  instead  of  unduly 
eloquent. 

Paul  Charleroy,  coming  from  a  class 
room,  found  his  wife  in  the  dining- 
room,  ironing  a  shirt-waist.  The  door 
was  open  into  the  little  kitchen  be 
yond,  where  the  range  fire  was  burn 
ing  industriously,  and  the  heat  poured 
steadily  in. 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  cooler  in 
here,"  Clarissa  explained  wearily,  "  but 
it  is  n't.  I  have  to  get  these  waists 
ready  to  wear,  and  a  gingham  dress 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     131 

ironed  for  Marvel.  The  child  is  simply 
roasted  in  that  woolen  thing.  But  the 
starch  will  stick  to  the  irons  ! " 

Professor  Charleroy  shut  the  door 
into  the  kitchen.  He  frowned  at  the 
ironing-board,  balanced  on  two  chairs 
in  front  of  the  window.  Small  changes 
in  the  household  arrangements  were 
likely  to  discompose  him.  In  his  own 
house  he  was  vaguely  conscious  al 
ways  of  seeking  a  calm  which  did  not 
exist  there. 

"  Can't  the  washerwoman  do  that 
ironing  ?  "  he  inquired. 

Clarissa  dropped  her  iron  and  con 
fronted  him  dramatically. 

"Doubtless  —  if  I  could  afford  to 
pay  her,"  she  responded.  "  As  you  are 
already  aware,  the  salary  of  associate 
professors  in  the  Midwest  University 
is  fourteen  hundred  dollars  a  year. 
When  steak  was  a  shilling  a  pound 


i32     CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD 

and  eggs  fifteen  cents  a  dozen  and 
the  washerwoman  asked  a  dollar  a 
day,  one  could  afford  to  have  her  help 
longer.  Now  it  is  different." 

Professor  Charleroy  moved  quietly 
over  to  the  ironing-board  and  put  the 
flatiron,  which  was  still  hot  enough  to 
scorch,  upon  its  stand.  Then  he  ar 
ranged,  in  a  glass,  the  handful  of  daf 
fodils  he  was  carrying,  and  set  them 
where  the  April  sunshine  fell  across 
them. 

"Yes,  I  know  it  is  different,"  he 
said  gloomily.  "  But  it  may  be  differ 
ent  again  if  I  can  place  my  text-book. 
When  we  married,  Clarissa,  I  thought 
your  own  little  income  would  be  suffi 
cient  to  protect  you  from  such  econo 
mies  as  I  knew  would  be  most  dis 
tasteful  to  you  —  but,  somehow,  it  — 
it  does  n't  seem  to  do  it." 

"  It  goes,"  returned  Clarissa.  "  I  don't 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     133 

know  how  it  goes,  but  it  does.  I  dare 
say  I  'm  not  a  good  manager.  It  is  n't 
as  if  I  dressed  well,  for  I  don't.  But  I 
would  n't  mind,  if  we  could  go  to  Chi 
cago  for  a  week  of  music  and  theatres 
in  the  spring.  But  we  can't  do  anything 
but  live  —  and  that  is  n't  living !  Some 
thing  is  wrong  with  the  whole  system 
of  woman's  work  in  the  world.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is,  but  I  mean  to  find  out. 
Somebody  has  got  to  do  something 
about  it." 

She  threw  back  her  small  blonde 
head  as  she  spoke,  and  it  was  as  if  she 
gave  the  universe  and  all  its  powers 
warning  that  she  did  not  purpose  to 
live  indefinitely  under  such  an  ill-ar 
ranged  order  of  things  as  they  were 
maintaining.  Let  the  universe  look  to 
itself ! 

"  I  met  Baumgarten  of  the  Midwest 
Ice  Company  on  the  campus.  He  says 


i34     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

if  this  weather  holds,  he  will  start  his 
ice-wagons  to-morrow,"  suggested  her 
husband  anxiously.  He  had  very  de 
finite  reasons  for  wishing  to  divert 
Clarissa  from  consideration  of  all  the 
things  that  are  out  of  joint  in  the 
world. 

"  Ice  is  a  detail.  Sometimes  details 
do  help,"  admitted  Clarissa,  fanning 
her  blazing  cheeks. 

"  We  will  have  Jacob  come  and  wash 
the  windows  and  put  on  the  screens  in 
the  morning,"  he  continued  very  gen 
tly.  "  And  I  will  uncover  the  roses  and 
rake  the  beds  this  afternoon.  I  should 
have  done  it  last  week,  but  no  one 
could  forsee  this  weather." 

"  I'm  not  ready  for  Jacob  until  I  have 
been  through  the  closets.  They  must 
be  cleaned  first.  —  I  hate  to  clean  clos 
ets!  I  hate  to  cook,  to  sew,  to  iron,  to 
dust,  to  scrub!  There  are  women  who 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     135 

like  these  occupations.  Let  such  people 
assume  them ! " 

"I  can  hear  you,  Clarissa,  if  you 
speak  less  oratorically.  We  are  not  in 
an  audience-room,"  suggested  her  hus 
band. 

Clarissa  was  slender,  fair,  and  dra 
matic.  If  she  was  in  the  room  you 
looked  at  her.  Her  Norman  nose  was 
delicately  cut,  her  manner  fastidious, 
but  her  collars  were  carelessly  put  on, 
and  her  neckties  had  a  vaguely  one 
sided  effect.  She  just  escaped  being 
pretty  and  precise  and  reliable-looking 
by  a  narrow  margin,  but  escape  she 
did.  She  was,  instead,  disturbing,  dis 
tracting,  decidedly  lovable,  not  a  little 
pathetic.  Her  face  was  dreamy,  yet 
acute  —  the  face  of  an  enthusiast.  The 
line  of  her  jaw  was  firmly  and  beau 
tifully  drawn ;  her  intellectual  activity 
was  undeniable,  but  philistines  mis- 


i36     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

trusted  her  conclusions  at  sight  — and 
justly. 

"  This  is  not  a  good  day  on  which 
to  hold  an  argument,"  she  went  on  with 
dignity,  ignoring  her  husband's  sub- 
acid  comment.  "  It  is  too  easy  to  be 
uncivil  when  one  is  so  uncomfortable. 
But  I  have  been  thinking  about  these 
matters  for  a  long  time.  I  have  been 
forming  my  resolutions.  They  are  not 
lightly  taken.  I  was  almost  ready,  in 
any  event,  to  tell  you  that  I  had  de 
cided  to  renounce  the  domestic  life." 

"  To  —  ?  " 

"  To  renounce  the  domestic  life,"  re 
peated  Clarissa  with  emphasis."  Homes 
are  an  anachronism  at  the  end  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  anyhow.  It  is  time 
women  had  the  courage  of  their  convic 
tions  and  sloughed  off  an  anti-social 
form  of  habitat  that  dates  from  the 
Stone  Age." 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     137 

"  Do  you  mean  you  would  rather 
board?" 

Clarissa  stared.  "  What  has  boarding 
to  do  with  it  ? "  she  inquired  rather 
haughtily.  "  I  am  talking  about  the 
universal  problem  of  woman's  work. 
One's  own  individual  makeshifts  do 
not  affect  that.  But  if  it  is  ever  to 
be  solved,  some  woman  must  solve  it. 
Men  never  will.  Sacrifices  will  have  to 
be  made  for  it,  as  for  other  causes. 
There  are  women  who  are  ready  to 
make  them  —  and  I  have  discovered 
that  I  am  one  of  the  women." 

Professor  Charleroy  received  this 
statement  in  absolute  silence. 

"  As  a  temporary  alleviation,"  Clar 
issa  went  on  meditatively,  "families 
might  be  associated  upon  some  group- 
system.  The  operating  expenses  of 
the  individual  establishments  would 
be  greatly  reduced,  and  the  surplus 


138     CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD 

could  be  applied  to  developing  the 
higher  life  of  the  members  of  the 
group.  It  would  be  quite  practicable, 
even  in  our  present  crude  civilization, 
to  arrange  such  groups.  But  of  course 
that  would  be  a  temporary  expedient. 
In  the  redeemed  form  of  social  life,  it 
will  not  be  necessary." 

"  What  ails  you,  Clarissa  ?  Did  that 
lecture  you  delivered  before  the  Satur 
day  Afternoon  Club  go  to  your  head  ? " 

Clarissa  flushed.  Her  club  paper  on 
"After  the  Home — What?"  was  a 
sensitive  subject.  She  already  had  been 
chaffed  a  good  deal  about  it. 

"  Of  course  I  know,"  she  said  with 
dignity,  "that  I  am  not  a  genius.  I 
can't  organize.  I  can't  write.  I  'm  not 
pretending  to  be  in  the  class  with 
Ibsen  or  Olive  Schreiner  or  Sonia 
Kovalevsky!  No,  nor  with  the  Amer 
ican  women  who  are  going  to  work 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     139 

out  their  ideas.  I  don't  believe  I  'd 
make  a  good  social  worker,  either.  I 
have  n't  enough  patience  and  tender 
ness.  But  I  can  talk.  You  know  I  can 
talk,  Paul." 

Yes,  he  knew  it.  To  his  cost,  he 
knew  it.  She  had  the  gift  of  fluent, 
winning  speech,  speech  with  an  atmo 
sphere,  a  charm.  Uncouth  theories  ac 
quired  grace  on  her  lips,  and  plausible 
theories  seemed  stronger  than  they 
were.  She  ironed  shirt-waists  badly, 
and  the  starch  stuck  to  the  irons,  but 
she  could  make  the  worse  appear  the 
better  reason  with  deftness  and  dis 
patch.  Somewhere,  somehow,  a  coal 
from  the  sacred  fire  had  touched  her 
lips.  You  might  be  indignant,  out 
raged,  at  her  theories,  but  you  never 
refused  to  listen  while  she  set  them 
forth. 

"  I  figure  it  this  way,"  she  continued. 


i4o     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

"  In  all  great  causes,  the  people  who 
can  think  and  write  need  the  help  of 
the  people  who  can  talk,  to  dissemin 
ate  their  ideas,  to  popularize  them,  to 
get  them  brought  home  to  the  people 
who  don't  think  and  don't  read,  and 
yet  have  influence.  That  shall  be  my 
metier.  I  can  do  it.  I  can  do  it  well.  I 
will  do  it  for  a  living  wage  and  put 
my  heart  and  soul  into  doing  it.  With 
out  going  outside  a  very  narrow  field, 
—  say,  that  of  parlor  talks,  —  I  can  yet 
be  a  promoter  of  great  causes.  I  will 
be  a  walking-delegate  from  the  Union 
of  the  Elect !  I  will  fight  the  good 
fight  for  Utopia!  Why,  Paul,  I  can 
make  it  glorious  ! " 

Her  face  shone  with  a  wonderful 
light.  Her  slender,  delicately  rounded 
figure  vibrated  with  enthusiasm.  She 
did  not  see  the  expression  on  her  hus 
band's  face.  When  great  thoughts  were 


CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD     141 

astir  in  Clarissa's  brain,  her  high  im 
perturbability,  her  bright  serenity,  were 
maddening.  To  assail  them,  logic  was 
as  useless  as  passion.  She  was  simply 
in  another  world  from  this. 

Her  husband  sat  down  heavily.  He 
felt  an  unacademic  desire  to  box  her 
ears.  Perhaps,  had  he  done  so,  there 
would  have  been  no  story,  for  like 
most  women  with  erratic  nerves  Clar 
issa  Charleroy  had  the  elemental  lik 
ing  for  a  masterful  man. 

However,  her  husband's  Huguenot 
blood  and  scholastic  training  did  not 
help  him  to  carry  out  such  primitive 
impulses  toward  domestic  discipline. 
He  was  a  man  of  sturdy  build,  with  a 
fine  head  and  brown  eyes  of  the  gen 
tle,  faithful  kind.  Conscientious,  per 
sistent,  upright,  he  perfectly  fitted  that 
old-fashioned  description  our  fathers 
loved,  "  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman."  It 


i42     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

cannot  be  denied  that  this  type  is  out 
of  place  in  our  modern  life ;  it  is  especi 
ally  at  a  disadvantage  when  confronted 
with  such  a  modern  wife  as  his. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  —  to  leave  Marvel 
and  me?"  he  inquired  in  a  voice  that 
was  not  as  even  as  he  could  have 
wished. 

His  back  was  toward  the  window. 
His  wife  could  not  see  that  he  had 
turned  white,  but  she  did  notice  that 
he  looked  steadily  down  into  the  palms 
of  his  hands. 

She  faced  him  with  a  fine  compos 
ure. 

"  I  don't  see  that  I  'm  much  good 
here  —  and  I,  myself,  am  certainly  very 
miserable,"  she  said.  "  There  is  so 
much  antagonism  between  you  and 
me,  Paul.  We  think  alike  about  so  few 
things ! " 

"  Do  you  think  the  antagonism  lies 


CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD     143 

between  you  and  me  —  or  between 
you  and  our  circumstances  ?  "  inquired 
the  professor.  His  voice  was  controlled 
now,  but  cutting.  "  Also,  do  you  feel 
any  special  antagonism  to  Marvel  ? 
She  is  rather  like  yourself,  you  know." 

Clarissa  nodded  brightly.  He  was 
stunned  to  see  that  she  approved  this. 

"  That 's  better !  Do  fight  me,  Paul ! 
It  clarifies  my  ideas,  and  I  see  more 
definitely  what  I  want.  I  wish  you 
were  a  good  fighter.  I  like  hard 
knocks!" 

"  Good  Lord !  little  girl,  you  don't 
mean  all  this  nonsense  —  you  can't. 
Why,  it 's  impossible.  You  're  my  wife. 
I've  done  my  best.  Some  day  I  shall 
do  better.  We  shall  win  to  peace  and 
comfort  yet  —  if  you  stand  by.  My 
text-book  —  " 

Clarissa  waved  a  disdainful  hand. 
Her  blue  eyes  were  liquid,  wonderful. 


144     CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD 

"  You  don't  seem  to  think  of  the 
cause,  Paul !  Don't  you  realize  that  / 
can  do  good  work  for  humanity  ?  Every 
body  can't  do  that.  Everybody  is  n't 
called  to  it.  I  am." 

Paul  Charleroy  let  this  statement 
pass.  It  hung  in  the  air  between  them, 
unchallenged,  undenounced.  Possibly 
it  was  true.  But,  the  man  was  wonder 
ing  dumbly,  what  became  of  other  men 
to  whom  this  thing  really  happened  ? 
Did  it  crush  them  all  like  this  ?  How 
did  they  keep  up  hope,  decency,  honor  ? 
How  did  they  preserve  their  interest 
in  the  game  and  make  life  worth  liv 
ing  afterward  ?  Already  he  felt  heavy 
upon  his  heart  a  presentiment  of  air 
less  days,  of  tortured  nights.  The  lone 
liness  of  it!  No  tenderness  anywhere 
in  life  for  him  ?  No  love  ?  Then,  what 
use  to  live?  Humanity?  Wasn't  he 
humanity  ? 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     145 

Nevertheless,  when  he  spoke,  he 
only  said,  "  And  Marvel  ?  Is  Marvel 
called  to  be  motherless  ?  " 

Clarissa's  serene  face  clouded  faintly. 
The  question  of  Marvel  did,  indeed, 
puzzle  even  her  facility.  And  yet  she 
had  light  on  that  problem  also. 

"  If  I  really  prove  to  be  any  good,  — 
and  I  think  I  shall  be  a  helper  in  a 
movement  that  is  going  to  revolution 
ize  the  earth,"  —  Clarissa  said  gravely, 
"  there  are  others  to  consider  besides 
Marvel.  It  —  why,  it  may  be,  Paul 
that  my  duty  is  to  the  race !  I  'm  not 
an  especially  good  mother  for  Marvel 
at  her  present  age  —  the  young-animal 
stage  of  her  development.  All  a  child 
under  twelve  years  needs  is  to  be  pro 
perly  fed,  and  clothed,  and  taught  the 
elementary  things.  It  has  all  been 
standardized,  and  is  a  matter  for  ex 
perts,  anyhow.  Your  sister  Josephine 


i46    CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

would  be  a  better  mother  for  her  for 
the  next  few  years  than  I.  Why  should 
I  do  what  others  can  do  better?  When 
Marvel  begins  to  think,  it  will  be  dif 
ferent.  Then  she  will  need  my  influ 
ence.  I  should  like  to  let  you  have  her 
for  the  next  few  years,  and  have  her 
come  to  me  when  she  is  fifteen  or 
sixteen.  How  would  that  suit  you, 
Paul?" 

Her  husband  moved  his  shoulders 
imperceptibly,  but  said  nothing.  The 
thing  had  passed  the  point  where  ra 
tional  speech,  as  he  conceived  it,  was  in 
place.  If  Clarissa  did  not  see  the  shal- 
lowness,  the  sheer  indecency,  of  dis 
carding  one's  human  relations  as  if  they 
were  old  clothes,  he  could  not  make  her 
see  it.  Was  it  only  half  an  hour  ago 
that  he  had  come  down  the  street  in 
the  spring  sunshine,  under  the  budding 
elms,  bringing  Clarissa  a  bunch  of  daf- 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     147 

f  odils  and  thinking  of  making  a  garden, 
and  of  all  the  dear, homely  April  tasks? 

Clarissa  assumed  that  his  silence  was 
one  of  acquiescence.  Sooner  or  later 
people  always  acquiesced. 

"  It  is  really  sweet  of  you  to  take  it 
like  this,  Paul,"  she  said  warmly.  "  I 
never  have  understood  why  people 
should  n't  be  thoroughly  rational  about 
these  matters.  There  's  no  occasion  for 
bitterness.  I  should  like  to  have  people 
say  we  had  remained  ideal  friends.  I 
shall  always  be  as  much  interested  in 
your  welfare  as  in  my  own.  —  Yes, 
more.  I  should  never  dream  of  marry 
ing  again,  myself,  but  in  time  I  think  it 
might  be  well  for  you  to  divorce  me 
and  do  so."  Her  mobile  face  became 
introspective,  absorbed.  "  Ruth  Law 
rence  is  rather  too  sentimental,  not 
energetic  enough  for  a  professor's  wife. 
And  Nora  Mills  is  heartless.  I  think 


i48     CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD 

she  would  marry  you  for  a  home,  but 
you  must  n't  let  her  do  it.  There  is 
Evelyn  Ames.  I  think  Evelyn  would 
do.  She  is  so  gentle  and  reliable!" 

She  was  actually  absorbed  in  this 
problem,  her  husband  perceived  to  his 
utter  amazement.  He  shivered  with 
distaste.  This  was  too  grotesque.  It 
could  not  be  true. 

His  wife  looked  at  him  for  approval. 
She  noted  that  the  look  of  fear  was 
gone  from  his  dark  eyes.  Something 
unwonted,  ironic,  flashed  there  in  its 
stead.  It  was  neither  mirth  nor  malice, 
yet  approached  both.  He  set  his  boy 
ish-looking  mouth  firmly,  and  shook 
off  his  silence  as  one  throws  off  a  night 
mare.  He  would  meet  her  on  her 
own  ground,  and  be  as  indifferent  as 
she. 

"  Really,  Clarissa,  that  is  the  first 
sensible  thing  you  have  said  this  after- 


CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD     149 

noon,"   he   forced    himself   to   say. — 
"Why,  what's  this?" 

It  was  the  small  daughter  of  the 
house  who  chose  this  momentto  emerge 
from  under  the  table,  clutching  fast  a 
jaded-looking  doll  and  a  handful  of  its 
belongings.  Her  round  eyes  were  fear- 
struck  and  her  quick  glance  curiously 
hostile,  but  she  slipped  silently  from 
the  room.  Her  presence  there  was  soon 
forgotten  by  her  parents  —  but  child 
ren  do  not  forget.  Of  all  the  incom 
prehensible  words  tossed  to  and  fro 
above  her  head,  Marvel  remembered 
every  one. 

II 

MARVEL  CHARLEROY  found  the  letter 
in  the  box  at  the  gate  where  the  post 
man  had  left  it.  There  was  other  mail ; 
she  glanced  at  the  covers  light-heartedly 
as  she  went  toward  the  house.  She  was 


i5o    CLARISSA'S   OWN   CHILD 

not  very  familiar  with  her  mother's 
handwriting  and,  for  the  moment,  did 
not  recognize  it. 

The  house  was  low,  gray-shingled, 
and  inviting.  It  had  a  kindly,  human 
aspect,  and  though  it  was  a  modern 
structure  built  at  the  time  of  Professor 
Charleroy's  second  marriage,  eleven 
years  before,  there  was  about  it  some 
thing  of  that  quiet  dignity  we  associate 
with  age.  The  branches  of  a  wide- 
spreading  old  elm  swept  one  of  its 
chimneys;  the  lawn  was  broad,  the 
lilacs  and  syringas  tall ;  ranks  of  high 
hollyhocks  in  shades  of  rose  and  wine, 
rising  against  gray  lattice,  shut  off  the 
kitchen  gardens  at  the  rear.  The  beds 
that  bordered  the  paths  were  planted 
to  a  tangle  of  old-fashioned  flowers, 
gorgeous  in  the  July  sunshine.  There 
was  a  subdued  gayety  about  the  whole 
aspect  of  the  sheltered,  sunny  place,  a 


CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD     151 

look  of  warmth  and  home  and  joy,  that 
was  especially  dear  to  Marvel  Charle- 
roy.  It  satisfied  in  her  some  elemental 
need. 

She  preserved  a  vivid  memory,  of 
which  she  never  spoke,  of  the  box-like 
little  house  on  Spring  Street,  her  early 
home.  She  recalled  that  house  as  dis 
orderly  and  uncomfortable  during  her 
mother's  regime ;  as  frigid  and  uncom 
fortable  during  the  reign  of  her  Aunt 
Josephine.  She  figured  herself  as  al 
ways  holding  her  breath,  as  always 
waiting  for  something,  while  she  lived 
there.  It  was  not  until  she  was  twelve 
(four  years  after  Clarissa  Charleroy 
left  her  husband),  that  Marvel,  to  her 
own  childish  apprehension,  began  to 
fill  her  lungs,  began,  indeed,  to  live. 

It  will  be  inferred  that  the  catastro 
phe,  so  clearly  outlined  on  that  April 
afternoon  fifteen  years  earlier,  did,  in 


i52     CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD 

fact,  occur.  For  various  reasons,  it  did 
not  take  place  immediately.  For  one 
thing,  it  required  time  for  Clarissa  to 
put  herself  into  touch  with  causes  that 
desired  to  be  "  promoted  "  by  her  silver 
tongue  and  wistful,  winning  ways. 
Then,  too,  there  were  moments  when 
she  wavered.  So  long  as  Paul  could 
maintain  that  pose,  achieved  with  great 
effort,  of  good-natured,  sarcastic  scoff 
ing  at  their  tragedy,  Clarissa  herself 
did  not  believe  in  it  wholly.  Sometimes 
they  drew  very  near  together.  A  de 
bonair,  indifferent  Paul  who  jested 
about  her  "  calling  "  attracted  her.  A 
Paul  who  could  demand  cheerfully  as 
he  took  his  second  cup  of  coffee, "  Well, 
Clarissa,  am  I  the  Tyrant  Man  this 
morning?  "was  not  unlikely  to  elicit  the 
answer,  "  No,  not  to-day,  Paul.  You  're 
just  own  folks  to-day."  But  a  Paul  who 
had  heard  the  wolf  howling  at  the  door 


CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD     153 

of  his  heart,  who  looked  at  her  with  eyes 
in  which  she  saw  fear  and  the  shadow 
of  a  broken  life,  repelled  her  utterly. 
Women  are  reputed  to  be  soft-hearted. 
Paul  Charleroy,  musing  upon  his  own 
predicament  in  those  days,  remem 
bered  this  age-long  superstition  with 
wonder. 

In  spite  of  various  respites,  a  cata 
strophe  which  is  latent  in  a  tempera 
ment  will,  some  day,  come  to  pass  — 
unless,  of  course,  the  owner  of  the  tem 
perament  decides  to  be  absolute  master 
of  himself.  Nothing  was  further  from 
Clarissa's  thought  than  to  recapture 
her  married  happiness  by  an  assault 
on  her  own  disposition. 

It  is  not  good  to  linger  over  this 
portion  of  their  story.  Clarissa  did,  fin 
ally,  take  over  the  task  of  reforming  as 
much  of  humanity  as  she  could  per 
suade  to  see  the  need  of  it,  and  she  laid 


i54     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

aside  the  business  of  looking  after  her 
husband  and  her  child.  Miss  Josephine 
Charleroy,  ten  years  her  brother's 
senior,  and  competent  rather  than  sym 
pathetic,  assumed  these  discarded  re 
sponsibilities. 

By  slow  degrees,  Paul  Charleroy's 
circumstances  became  less  straitened. 
He  did  place  his  text-book  well,  and  de 
rived  a  considerable  income  therefrom; 
on  the  death  of  old  Dr.  Lettarby  he 
succeeded  to  the  full  professorship,  with 
the  munificent  salary  of  twenty-five 
hundred  a  year.  Last  of  all,  some  time 
after  Clarissa  and  he  were  made  free  of 
each  other  by  legal  means,  he  did  actu 
ally  marry  Evelyn  Ames. 

Thus,  it  will  be  seen,  Clarissa's  fore 
casts  were  fulfilled.  Her  notions  were 
absolutely  practicable ;  they  really,  all 
of  them,  worked,  and  worked  well.  In 
the  long  run  they  even  worked  bene- 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     155 

ficently,  but  one  prefers  to  attribute 
this  to  the  mercy  of  Providence  rather 
than  to  the  foresight  of  Clarissa. 

Marvel  Charleroy  was  twelve  years 
old  when  her  father  married  again,  and 
life  began  for  her.  The  little  girl  noted, 
dimly  at  first,  then  with  growing  won 
der  and  appreciation,  how  interesting 
the  commonplace  things  became  under 
the  new  rule.  Though  her  frocks  were 
simple  as  ever,  their  adaptation  to  her 
self  made  it  a  pleasure  to  wear  them ; 
she  seemed  suddenly  to  have  acquired 
a  definite  place  in  the  family  life,  a  po 
sition  with  duties  and  with  compen 
sating  pleasures.  Her  friendships  were 
considered,  her  friends  noticed  and 
welcomed.  For  the  first  time  she  felt 
herself  an  individual.  Somebody  was 
interested  in  what  she  did  and  said  and 
thought.  Her  own  shy  young  con 
sciousness  of  personality  was  reflected 


I56     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

back  to  her,  strengthened,  and  adorned. 
She  perceived  with  something  like  awe 
that  the  girl  named  "  Marvel  "  did  not 
live  only  in  her  breast.  Her  father  and 
his  wife  knew  a  Marvel  whom  they  be 
lieved  to  be  industrious  and  clever,  lov 
ing  and  helpful.  These  qualities  were 
multiplied  tenfold  by  her  perception 
that  they  were  looked  for  from  that 
Marvel  whom  the  heads  of  the  house 
seemed  so  happy  to  own  and  to  cher 
ish. 

The  child  throve.  She  who  had 
wondered  vaguely  at  the  stress  laid 
by  her  books  upon  the  satisfactions  of 
home,  now  tasted  thirstily  of  that  de 
light.  And  she  repaid  the  miracle  of 
Evelyn's  tenderness  with  the  whole  of 
an  ardent  heart. 

To  her  elders,  the  years  went  fast. 
Suddenly,  as  it  seemed,  Marvel  was  a 
young  woman  with  more  than  her  fair 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     157 

share  of  gifts  and  graces.  She  was  ex 
quisitely  pretty,  with  an  effective  little 
style  of  her  own ;  she  made  a  brilliant 
record  as  a  student ;  she  had  the  rich 
endowment  of  easy  popularity.  Fur 
ther,  she  seemed  to  possess,  so  far  as 
slight  experiments  could  demonstrate, 
that  rare  thing,  the  genuine  teacher's 
gift.  Something  of  her  father's  pas 
sion  for  scholarship,  something  of  her 
mother's  silver-lipped  persuasiveness, 
met  in  the  girl  and  mingled  with  cer 
tain  deep  convictions  of  her  own. 

The  practical  outcome  of  all  this 
was  the  suggestion  that  her  Alma 
Mater,  Midwest,  would  be  glad  to  at 
tach  her  to  its  teaching  force  without 
insisting  upon  an  additional  degree. 
She  had  spent  one  year  abroad  since 
her  graduation,  part  of  which  was  oc 
cupied  in  study.  But,  like  many  young 
Americans,  she  found  her  own  reflec- 


158     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

tions  on  the  Old  World  more  stimula 
ting  than  any  instruction  offered  her 
there. 

Now  she  was  at  home,  ready  to  be 
gin  work  in  September,  enthusiastic, 
almost  effervescent,  with  her  satisfac 
tion  in  the  arrangement  of  her  own 
little  world. 

Coming  into  the  shaded  house,  out 
of  the  blaze  of  the  July  sunshine,  she 
dropped  herfather's  letters  on  the  desk 
in  his  study,  and  ran  upstairs  to  read 
her  own.  It  was  quite  an  hour  before 
she  heard  him  calling  at  the  foot  of 
the  stair,  — 

"  Marvel !  Come  down,  daughter, 
I  want  you." 

Something  in  his  voice — she  did 
not  know  what — gave  her  a  thrill  of 
apprehension.  She  had  never  heard 
just  that  tone  from  him  before. 

She  found  Professor  and  Mrs.  Char- 


CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD     159 

leroy  waiting  for  her  in  the  living-room. 
Their  faces  were  grave  and  troubled. 
Marvel's  apprehensive  pang  mingled 
with  a  curious  little  resentment  that 
her  nearest  and  dearest  could  allow 
themselves  to  look  thus,  all  on  a  sum 
mer  morning,  in  this  highly  satisfac 
tory  world. 

"  Daughter,  I  have  a  letter  here," 
her  father  began  at  once,  "  a  letter 
from  your  mother.  It  concerns  you 
more  than  any  one.  The  question  it 
involves  is  one  for  you  to  decide.  I 
ought  not  to  conceal  from  you  my  be 
lief  that  you  will  need  to  consider  the 
matter  very  carefully." 

Marvel  took  the  letter  with  gravity, 
hoping  that  this  portentous  serious 
ness  was  misplaced.  This  is  what  she 
read :  - 

MY  DEAR  PAUL, — You  remember, 
of  course,  that  when  we  separated,  it 


160     CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD 

was  with  the  understanding  that  Mar 
vel  was  to  come  to  me  when  she  was 
fifteen  or  sixteen.  But,  as  you  urged, 
when  I  brought  the  matter  up  at  that 
time,  she  was  then  just  completing  her 
preparation  for  college.  Since  she  de 
sired  college  training,  it  was  certainly 
easier  and  simpler  for  her  to  have  it 
at  Midwest  than  elsewhere.  I  put  aside 
my  own  preferences,  because  the  argu 
ments  in  favor  of  her  remaining  with 
you  were  weighty.  But  it  does  not  seem 
to  me  just  or  right  that  I  should  be 
deprived  of  my  daughter's  society  en 
tirely,  because  I  waived  my  preference 
as  to  her  education.  I  feel  that  she 
has  been  deprived  of  my  influence,  and 
I  of  her  companionship,  already  too 
long. 

As  I  understand  it,  she  graduated  a 
year  ago,  and  has  since  been  abroad. 
It  seems  to  me  this  winter  will  be  an 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     161 

excellent  time  for  her  to  come  to  me. 
I  shall  have  an  apartment  in  Chicago, 
and  she  will  find  it  easy  to  arrange  for 
post-graduate  work  if  she  desires.  I 
shall  be  less  busy  than  usual,  for  my 
health  has  given  way  a  little  under  the 
strain  of  my  work,  and  the  doctor  has 
warned  me  to  rest  as  much  as  possible. 
I  am  looking  forward  with  pleasure  to 
introducing  her  to  my  friends,  my  life, 
my  ideas. 

When  will  it  be  most  convenient 
for  her  to  come  ?  I  should  say  about 
the  first  of  October. 

As  ever,  my  dear  Paul, 
Your  sincere  friend, 

CLARISSA  CHARLEROY. 

"Well,  really!" 

Marvel  dropped  the  letter  on  the 
floor  and  turned  to  face  her  family  with 
more  than  a  suggestion  of  belligerence. 


162     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  blue  eyes 
burning,  and  her  head  held  high  with 
a  little  air  that  reminded  her  auditors 
swiftly  and  inevitably  of  Clarissa 
Charleroy's  self. 

"  Dear  people,  what  do  you  look  so 
frightened  for  ? "  she  demanded.  "  I  call 
it  very  cheeky  of  my  mother  to  make 
such  a  demand  of  me.  Does  n't  she 
realize  that  I  'm  a  person  with  a  career 
of  my  own  —  and  that  when  I'm  not 
busy  with  that,  I  have  to  keep  my  eye 
on  you  two !  I  have  n't  the  slightest  in 
tention  of  leaving  home — so  you 
need  n't  look  like  that!  " 

Marvel's  little  harangues  usually 
met  with  instant  response  from  her 
family.  They  were  wont  to  brighten 
and  become  argumentative,  even  when 
they  disagreed.  But  neither  of  them 
answered  this  pronouncement. 

Her  father  sat  by  an  open  window, 


CLARISSA'S   OWN   CHILD     163 

looking  out  upon  the  garden's  gayety 
with  unseeing  eyes.  His  wife  sat  at  an 
other  window  watching  him  wistfully, 
while  Marvel  faced  them  both  from  the 
hearth,  offering  her  cheerful  young  de 
fiance  for  their  approval. 

Their  silence,  their  gravity,  startled 
the  girl.  She  looked  from  one  face  to 
the  other  in  quick  scrutiny.  What  did 
this  mean  ?  For  perhaps  the  first  time 
in  her  life,  it  flashed  through  her  mind 
that,  after  all,  she  knew  nothing  of  the 
inner  attitude  of  these  two  people, 
whom  she  greatly  loved,  toward  the 
two  facts  which  had  made  them  all 
one  household  —  her  mother's  divorce, 
namely,  and  her  father's  remarriage. 
The  whole  structure  of  three  united, 
happy  lives  was  built  upon  these  cata- 
clysmal  facts  —  yet  she  had  never 
asked  what  thought  they  held  of  them ! 
Dignified,  delicate,  scrupulous,  she 


164    CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD 

knew  them  both  to  be.  Through  what 
anguish  and  uncertainty  might  they 
not  have  passed  before  they  clasped 
hands  at  last,  making  of  their  two 
hearts  a  shelter  for  her  robbed,  de 
fenseless  one  ? 

Her  manner  changed  on  the  instant. 

"  Dear  family,  you  don't  want  me  to 
go?  Surely — why  —  you  cant  want 
me  to  go  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Evelyn  in  a  low  voice, 
"  dearest,  no.  Certainly  we  don't  want 
you  to  go.  Only  —  " 

"  But  my  work !  "  cried  Marvel,  pas 
sionately,  answering  their  faces,  not 
their  words.  "  I  want  to  do  it  so  much ! 
How  can  I  possibly  leave  my  work  ? 
And  you,  and  my  life  here  —  every 
thing!" 

Her  father  turned  his  face  farther 
toward  the  window,  looking  out  blindly, 
but  Marvel  caught  his  expression  — 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     165 

the  look  of  one  who  tastes  again  an 
ancient  bitterness.  She  did  not  know 
its  full  meaning,  but  her  sympathy 
leaped  to  meet  it.  Evelyn  Charleroy, 
watching  her,  felt  a  sudden  stirring  of 
pride  in  the  girl's  swift  response  to 
another's  need,  her  quick  tenderness. 
It  was  thus  that  Evelyn  saw  the  life 
of  woman  — as  one  long  opportunity 
for  the  exercise  of  these  qualities. 

"  Darlingest  father,  of  course  I  'm 

not  going  to  leave  you.  Still,  if  I  were 

—  what  is  mother  like?    What  does 

she  expect  ?  What  am  I  to  do  if  I  go 

to  her?" 

"  She  is  a  brilliant  woman,"  answered 
Professor  Charleroy.  "  In  many  ways 
you  are  not  unlike  her,  Marvel,  in 
mental  alertness  and  all  that.  As  for 
what  she  expects  —  God  knows!" 

The  girl  pursued  her  point.  "  It  is  n't 
an  occupation  —  to  be  a  brilliant  wo- 


166     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

man.  I  'm  not  quite  sure,  even,  what 
she  does.  She  lectures  ?  She  is  philan 
thropic,  or  humanitarian,  or  something 
like  that  ?  Does  she  write  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  the  professor,  choos 
ing  his  words  with  evident  and  con 
scientious  care.  "  That  is  not  her  gift. 
She  has  the  endowment  of  convincing 
speech.  She  has  used  it  admirably  for 
many  admirable  causes  —  and  quite  as 
ably  for  other  causes  that  I  esteem 
less.  But  that,  you  understand,  is  my 
personal  point  of  view.  Her  chief  in 
terest,  however,  has  been  the  so-called 
advancement  of  women,  and  you  might 
describe  her  as  one  of  the  many  incon 
spicuous  promoters  of  that  movement. 
Chiefly,  at  present,  she  is  holding 
classes,  giving  parlor-talks,  what-not, 
in  which  she  paraphrases  and  popu 
larizes  the  ideas  of  her  leaders.  Her 
personality,  though  winning,  does  not 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     167 

carry  far,  and  she  is  only  effective  be 
fore  a  handful  of  people.  Her  —  her 
conversation  is  possibly  more  convinc 
ing  because  it  is  less  susceptible  of 
close  examination  than  the  written 
word.  But  I  do  not  wish  to  be  unjust." 

"  Then  I  take  it  mother  is  not  schol 
arly?"  asked  the  girl  of  academic  train 
ing. 

"She  is  not  taken  seriously  —  by 
the  serious,"  the  professor  admitted. 
"  You  know,  Marvel,  there  are  women 
who  are  —  who  are  dearly  enthusiastic 
about  the  future  of  the  race,  who  really 
are  not  in  a  position  to  do  advanced 
thinking  about  it.  Of  course  there  are 
others  of  whom  I  would  not  venture 
to  make  such  an  assertion,  but  in  my 
judgment  your  mother  belongs  to  the 
former  class.  You  will  form  your  own 
opinion  upon  the  subject.  Do  not  go 
to  her  with  any  bias  in  your  mind.  She 


168    CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

is  sincere.  Her  passion  for  humanity 
is  doubtless  real,  but  it  seems  to  me 
that  her  erratic  spirit  has  turned  it  into 
a  channel  where  it  is  ineffective.  In 
any  case  she  is  an  attractive  woman. 
A  winter  with  her  should  be  interest- 
ing." 

His  daughter  eyed  him  gravely. 
There  were  depths  of  reserve  in  her 
face  and  voice.  She  had  felt  much,  and 
said  little,  about  this  mother  whom 
they  were  discussing  thus  dispassion 
ately.  Perhaps  it  gratified  her  young 
dignity  that  she  was  able  to  consider 
with  apparent  detachment  the  woman 
of  whom  she  had  thought  long  in  se 
cret  with  bitter,  blinding  tears. 

"  It  is,  as  you  say,  a  thing  to  con 
sider,"  she  observed  gently.  "  I  may  be 
mistaken  in  deciding  offhand  that  I 
will  not  go.  I  '11  think  it  over,  father 
dear." 


CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD     169 

Professor  Charleroy  rose,  visibly 
pulling  himself  together.  Crossing  the 
room,  he  picked  up  the  letter  Marvel 
had  dropped  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"  I  also  may  be  mistaken,"  he  said, 
"in  my  first  feeling  about  the  matter. 
Yet  I  think  not.  But  we  will  not  de 
cide  hastily." 

When  he  left  the  room,  Marvel  part 
ly  closed  the  door  and  turned  to  her 
stepmother. 

"Now,  Evelyn,  you  darling,  you 
know  all  this  is  perfectly  ridiculous. 
Apparently  I  can't  tell  father  so, —  I 
could  see  I  was  hurting  him, — but  it 
simply  is  ridiculous!" 

"I  do  not  feel  so,  Marvel,"  Mrs. 
Charleroy  answered  steadily. 

"What  right  has  she?"  the  girl 
stormed.  "  What  right,  I  wish  to  know? 
To  summon  me  like  this!  Didn't  she 
throw  us  away,  father  and  me,  once 


170     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

and  for  all  ?  You  can't  recall  a  thing 
like  that!  Why  should  she  think  she 
could  take  me  back  any  more  than  fa 
ther?  'Influence'  me,  indeed!  She 
does  n't  know  the  A  B  C  of  influence ! 
I  am  made — done  —  finished.  Such 
as  I  am,  she  has  had  no  hand  in  me. 
If  the  outcome  is  creditable,  thanks 
are  due  to  you  and  father  and  the 
Herr  Gott.  Oh,  I  know  the  things 
that  have  gone  to  my  making!  I  don't 
talk  about  them  much,  perhaps,  but  I 
know!" 

Mrs.  Charleroy  sat  very  still,  re 
garding  her  stepdaughter  anxiously. 
She  was  a  woman  of  the  most  benig 
nant  of  all  the  elder  types :  slight,  but 
strong ;  her  brown  hair  parted  smoothly, 
and  brought  back  from  a  high  full 
forehead ;  she  had  a  firm  chin,  with  a 
tense,  sweet  mouth,  and  large,  thought 
ful,  gray-blue  eyes. 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     171 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  you  are  com 
pletely  finished, dear?  I  wouldn't  dare 
affirm  that  of  myself." 

"  If  there  were  no  other  reasons  — 
why,  even  if  I  wanted  to  go,"  Marvel 
went  on,  "there  is  my  work.  I  have  ac 
cepted  a  position  in  the  English  de 
partment.  They  are  depending  upon 
me.  I  am  ready,  and  there  is  no  one  to 
take  my  place." 

"  You  are  mistaken  there.  Miss  An 
derson  would  be  glad  to  retain  the  po 
sition  for  a  year.  Something  has  hap 
pened  to  her  arrangements  for  foreign 
study,  and  I  heard  it  intimated  the 
other  day  that  she  regretted  resigning 
when  she  did.  She  would  be  delighted 
to  stay  on.  You  could,  I  think,  come 
back  to  the  position  next  year.  I  be 
lieve  you  could  arrange  with  Professor 
Axtell." 

"O  Evelyn!  Why  do  you  wish  to 


i7a     CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD 

make  my  going  easy?  Don't  you  see  I 
can't  bear  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  say  what  I 
wish,"  said  the  elder  woman  wistfully. 
"  If  I  remind  you  that  after  all  she  is 
your  mother,  I  am  afraid  it  will  not 
mean  to  you  what  it  does  to  me." 

"  Certainly  I  think  that,  as  between 
us  two,  the  fact  no  longer  carries  obli 
gation  from  me  to  her !  "  said  Marvel 
steadily. 

"  O  Marvel!  You  are  hard!  " 

"  No !  I  am  just." 

"Justice  is  never  so  simple  as  that," 
returned  Evelyn  Charleroy.  "  But  even 
if  it  were,  your  father  —  I  —  would 
rather  see  you  merciful.  It  would  be 
more  like  you,  Marvel !  " 

Marvel  set  the  line  of  her  red  lips. 
"  I  do  not  wish  to  go,  not  even  to  live 
up  to  your  idea  of  me! " 

"  Marvel,  listen  to  me  a  moment.  I 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     173 

may  not  be  able  to  make  you  under 
stand  —  but  I  must  try.  This  is  the 
thing  I  must  make  you  know.  The  re 
actions  upon  the  spirit  of  the  ties  of 
the  flesh  are,  simply,  the  most  miracu 
lous  things  in  all  this  miraculous  world. 
I  am  not  preaching.  I  am  just  telling 
you  what  I  know.  This  business  of  be 
ing  a  child,  a  parent,  a  husband,  a  wife, 
—  no  creature  can  escape  that  net  of 
human  relationships  wholly.  It  is  there, 
right  there,  that  we  are  knotted  fast  to 
the  whole  unseen  order  of  things.  What 
we  make  of  those  ties  determines  what 
we  substantially  are.  Oh,  if  you  could 
see  it  as  I  see  it !  This  is  the  real  reason, 
the  strongest  one  of  all,  for  our  wishing 
you  to  go.  You  must  not  throw  away 
the  chance  it  is  —  the  chance  of  finding 
out  what  you  are  to  each  other.  You 
must  concede  something  for  the  sake 
of  learning  that !  " 


I74     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

"  It  is  n't  the  mother  after  the  flesh, 
but  the  mother  after  the  spirit,  to 
whom  are  due  the  great  concessions!  " 
cried  the  girl,  "  and,  Evelyn,  that  is 
you!" 

"Marvel  —  there  is  still  another 
reason.  It  may  appeal  to  you  more." 

Evelyn  Charleroy's  agitated  face, 
the  tumult  of  her  eyes,  startled  her 
stepdaughter.  She  could  not  bear  dis 
turbance  of  that  dear  serenity. 

"  Child  !  —  Do  you  suppose  it  was 
an  easy  thing  for  me  to  come  into  your 
father's  life  and  take  your  mother's 
place  while  she  still  lived?  There  were 
months  of  doubt.  There  was  hesita 
tion  that  was  agony  to  us  both  —  but 
in  the  end  —  I  came.  Thus  far  the 
thing  has  seemed  to  justify  itself.  It 
has  seemed  to  work  for  peace,  for  bless 
edness,  to  us  all.  I  have  felt  no  wrong, 
have  been  refused  no  inner  sanction. 


CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD     175 

And  yet,  I  tell  you,  I  am  still  uncertain 
of  my  right  to  all  that  your  mother 
threw  away,  and  I  do  not,  even  yet, 
entirely  defend  my  action  in  taking  it! 
You  have  been  our  comfort,  our  great 
est  blessing,  because  it  has  seemed  to 
be  well  for  you.  But,  don't  you  see,  if 
you  fail  us  now ;  if  we  have  made  you 
selfish ;  if,  through  us,  you  have  come 
to  ignore  that  elemental  tie ;  if  you  lose 
out  of  life  whatever  it  may  hold  for 
you,  we  —  we  shall  doubt  our  right — 
we  shall  be  less  sure  —  "  The  woman's 
voice  fluttered  and  fell  on  silence  sud 
denly. 

"  O  Evelyn  ! "  the  girl  cried  out  in 
sharp  distress,  "  don't,  don't  look  like 
that !  Dearest,  don't  dare  to  feel  like 
that !  There  is  no  need !  I  won't  be 
horrid!  I  '11  do  anything  on  earth  that 
you  and  father  really  wish!" 


176    CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

III 

CHICAGO,  November  fifth. 

PRECIOUS  FATHER  AND  EVELYN:  — 
I  know  all  my  letters  thus  far  have 
been  rather  no-account.  They  were 
just  to  let  you  know  that  I  was  well, 
and  interested,  and  getting  used  to 
things.  I  loath  the  city  so  that  I  think 
I  must  be  a  country  mouse.  Every 
time  I  go  down  in  the  Elevated,  past 
all  the  grimy,  slimy,  hideous  back 
buildings,  something  in  me  turns  over 
and  revolts.  I  want  to  be  within  reach 
of  red  leaves,  and  wheat-stubble,  and 
fat  quail  running  in  the  roadside  grass. 
Did  the  little  red  and  yellow  chrysan 
themums  do  well  this  year?  How 
about  that  marigold  border  I  planted 
in  the  kitchen  garden? 

However,  I  am  going  to  have  a  most 
instructive  winter.  It  was  crude  of  me 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     177 

to  think  it,  but  because  mother's 
friends  are  mostly  different  kinds  of 
reformers,  I  expected  to  find  them  dubs 
and  scrubs.  It  seems  droll  for  people 
who  can't  live  the  normal  human  life 
successfully  to  set  themselves  up  to 
say  that  therefore  it  's  all  wrong,  and 
they  will  show  us  a  better  way  to  play 
the  game.  But  only  a  few  of  these  are 
that  kind  of  reformers,  and  they  're  not 
dubby  and  scrubby  at  all !  Some  of 
them  are  just  reformers  from  the  teeth 
out.  They  're  merely  amusing  them 
selves. 

Mother  is  n't  playing,  however.  She 's 
tremendously  in  earnest.  Being  a  re 
former  is  n't  fattening.  She  keeps  back 
no  pound  of  flesh.  She  is  so  thin  and 
tense  and  nervous,  so  obsessed  with 
her  own  ideas,  that  it  worries  me  some 
times.  I  feel  as  if  I  lived  perpetually 
in  the  room  with  an  electric  fan.  I  have 


I78    CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

been  to  her  classes  several  times.  She 
has  a  certain  eager  eloquence,  a  real 
appeal,  that  will  always  gain  her  a 
hearing.  I  wish  she  could  keep  her 
neckties  straight,  but  that  is  a  trifle. 

Do  you  remember  old  Mrs.  Knowles 
saying  that  she  loved  to  sit  at  the  win 
dow  and  "  see  the  people  going  pro  and 
con  in  the  street  ?  "  That  is  my  present 
occupation !  These  people  do  a  tremen 
dous  amount  of  "  going  pro  and  con  "  in 
the  world  of  the  mind.  I  have  been 
hearing  a  vast  deal  of  feminist  discus 
sion,  owing  to  the  appearance  of  some 
new  books  in  that  line.  Can  you  see 
why,  if  nature  has  spent  some  thou 
sands  of  years  making  women  "  ana 
bolic,  or  conservers  of  energy,"  they 
should  try  to  reverse  the  process  in  a 
decade  and  become  even  as  men,  who 
are  "  katabolic,  or  dispensers  of  ener 
gy,"  just  because  a  stray  thinker  sup- 


CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD     179 

poses  it  would  make  them  more  inter 
esting  if  they  all  had  a  business  life 
and  dispensed  that  energy  downtown  ? 
It  seems  to  me  ill-advised  to  defy  na 
ture  wholesale.  I  am  willing  to  work 
for  bread,  or  for  the  love  of  work  — 
but  not  to  oblige  illogical  theorists  ! 

I  'm  glad  I  don't  have  to  reconcile  all 
the  different  views  I  hear !  One  person 
will  argue  that  woman's  work  in  the 
home  is  so  complicated  and  taxing  that 
it  all  ought  to  be  done  for  her  by  spe 
cialists,  while  she  goes  downtown  and 
becomes  some  other  kind  of  specialist 
herself.  This  is  the  school  of  thought 
to  which  mother  belongs.  One  or  two 
of  its  leaders  are  terribly  clever — and 
mother  is  rapturously  sure  that  wis 
dom  was  born  with  them !  She  is  so 
happy  to  be  advocating  and  expound 
ing  their  ideas !  I  find  this  discipleship 
pathetic.  One  does  n't  deny  that  they 


i8o    CLARISSA'S   OWN   CHILD 

have  visions,  —  mother  has  them  also, 
—  but  to  me  their  visions  are  not  di 
vine  or  beautiful. 

The  next  person  will  be  a  reaction 
ary,  and  say  that  we  are  going  straight 
to  destruction  because  some  women 
are  thrown  into  industrial  competition 
with  men. 

A  third  will  be  sure  that,  because 
modern  life  with  all  its  industrial  de 
velopments  outside  the  home  has 
drawn  many  women  away  from  home 
life,  therefore  all  women  ought  to  be 
thrown  out  of  their  homes  in  a  bunch 
and  hustle  for  themselves  in  the  mar 
ket-place.  There  's  no  longer  anything 
to  do  at  home,  and  if  they  stay  there 
they  will  get  fat  and  lazy  and  parasitic. 
I  argued  about  this  half  the  evening 
with  an  apple-faced  youth  of  twenty- 
five  who  is  still  supported  by  his 
mother.  You  would  have  supposed,  to 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     181 

hear  him,  that  feminine  hands  and  feet 
were  going  to  atrophy  and  fall  off  from 
disuse,  and  that  we  should  turn  into 
some  kind  of  chubby  white  grub  with 
mouths  perpetually  demanding  to  be 
fed. 

I  don't  deny  that  there  are  indo 
lent  women  in  the  world,  but  I  cer 
tainly  never  saw  any  parasites  in  the 
college  set  at  Powelton.  Somebody 
will  have  to  "  show  me "  before  I  can 
get  up  any  heat  of  conviction  on  the 
subject ! 

No  longer  anything  to  do  at  home ! 
It  has  kept  me  so  busy  putting  one 
attenuated  little  reformer-lady's  flat  to 
rights  and  training  a  cook  for  her  that 
I  have  n't  had  a  minute,  yet,  to  see 
about  those  courses  I  meant  to  take  at 
the  University !  I  shall  get  around  to 
them  presently,  I  hope. 

Mother  took  the  flat   before  I  ar- 


182     CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD 

rived,  and  the  packers  brought  her 
furniture  from  storage  and  unpacked 
it,  and  set  it  about  according  to  their 
fancy,  and  cleaned  up  the  mess  and  de 
parted.  We  moved  our  trunks  out  the 
next  morning.  Mother  went  up  and 
down  and  to  and  fro,  as  unsettled  as 
the  Cat  that  Walked.  Finally  she  de 
manded  of  me,  "  Marvel,  what  ails  this 
flat? "  and  I  said,  "  Why,  mother,  the 
colors  are  all  wrong  and  it  is  n't  cozy. 

She  threw  up  her  hands  in  despair. 
"  Is  coziness  to  be  the  end  of  our  liv 
ing?"  she  demanded ;  and  I  said,  "It 
is." 

You  see,  she  can  explain  adorably 
about  beauty  in  the  home,  but  she 
had  n't  known  any  better  than  to  leave 
the  tinting  to  the  kalsominer.  —  "  Kal- 
somine  is  his  business.  He  ought  to 
know  better  than  I,"  she  said.  She  has 
such  blind  faith  in  specialists !  —  There 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     183 

resulted  a  red  dining-room,  a  terrible 
green  living-room,  and  dark  lavender 
bedrooms !  No  wonder  poor  little 
mother  was  miserable ! 

Getting  it  put  right  was  messy,  de 
plorable,  and  expensive  beyond  words ; 
but  it  is  all  nice  tans  now,  with  charm 
ing  chintz  draperies  and  chair-covers. 
I  did  the  upholstering  myself,  and  it 
is  n't  half  bad. 

Mother  does  n't  like  ugly  things,  nor 
get  them  of  her  own  free  will,  but  she  is 
obsessed  to  accept  the  advice  of  every 
body  who  pretends  to  be  a  specialist, 
and  they  "  do  "  her  frightfully.  It  is  one 
of  the  penalties  of  being  a  S  uperwoman. 

Getting  a  cook  required  diplomacy. 
It  is  a  point  of  honor  with  mother  to 
take  meals  in  restaurants  or  buy  deli 
catessen  stuff.  She  was  in  the  hospital 
two  months  with  inflammation  of  the 
liver  last  winter,  and  dyspepsia  makes 


184     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

half  her  days  hideous.  If  people  will 
live  on  indigestible  ideas,  instead  of 
home  cooking,  I  'm  afraid  it 's  what 
they  must  expect !  I  freely  admit  that 
I  can't  combat  mother's  ideas,  as 
ideas,  —  I'm  not  clever  enough,  —  but 
she  does  n't  know  how  to  be  comfort 
able,  which  is  to  be  efficient.  She  is 
rabidly  against  kitchens,  but  arithme 
tic  demonstrates  that  here,  in  Chicago, 
this  winter,  it  will  cost  less,  and  be 
more  healthful  to  have  a  maid  for  the 
season  instead  of  dragging  ourselves 
out  in  the  snow  to  eat  thirty-cent 
breakfasts  and  fifty-cent  luncheons  and 
seventy-five  cent  dinners,  and  pay  a 
woman  for  coming  to  clean.  I  argue 
that,  so  long  as  the  Redeemed  Form 
of  Society  has  n't  arrived,  we  are  n't 
disloyal  to  it  by  doing  this ! 

Myra  Ann    has   learned    to   make 
Evelyn's  beef-tea  and   mutton-broth. 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     185 

Mother  needs  them  badly.  Then  I  dis 
covered  that  eggs  have  always  dis 
agreed  with  her,  but  she  went  right  on 
eating  them  because  she  thought  them 
an  "  ideal  food,"  and  that  if  her  stomach 
was  n't  sufficiently  standardized  to 
appreciate  them,  it  ought  to  be !  I  call 
that  heroic,  if  it  is  droll.  Idiosyncrasy 
is  something  for  which  mother's  creed 
makes  no  allowance.  We  now  have  an 
attractive  set  of  eggless  breakfasts.— 
Does  all  this  sound  like  a  model  house 
keeper  writing  to  a  domestic  journal? 
Evelyn  knows  I  have  a  little  right  to 
throw  bouquets  at  myself,  for  I  was  n't 
born  a  housekeeper — but  housekeep 
ers  can  be  made ! 

Seems  to  me,  if  you  ought  to  stand 
ardize  an  individual's  diet,  as  mother 
thinks,  similar  arguments  apply  to  his 
clothes,  his  features,  his  body,  his  mind, 
his  soul.  There's  no  logical  place  to 


i86     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

stop.  Yet  we  know  that  diversity,  not 
similarity,  is  the  end  nature  is  always 
seeking  in  evolution.  Of  course,  if  you 
are  going  to  buck  all  the  natural  laws, 
that's  different ! 

My  country  brain  gets  tired  in  such 
a  menagerie  of  ideas.  In  our  own  life 
at  home,  there  is  comfort,  peace,  suf 
ficient  stimulus,  development ;  this  life 
is  exciting,  but  barren  of  something 
that  I  will  call  soil  to  grow  in,  because 
I  don't  know  any  better  word.  Of  course 
it  is  great  fun  for  me  to  come  in  con 
tact  with  so  many  different  kinds  of 
minds  and  hear  them  emit  their  the 
ories.  Only,  somehow,  the  theorists 
lack  reality  to  me.  Do  I  make  myself 
clear  ? 

I  hope  this  will  give  you  a  notion 
of  what  I  'm  doing  and  thinking,  and 
that  you'll  know  I'm  really  having  a 
beautiful  time.  I  miss  you  both  hor- 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     187 

ribly,  though.  I  will  tell  about  some 
of  the  people  in  my  next  letter.  I  'm 
acting  as  mother's  secretary  just  now. 
She  really  needs  one,  and  it 's  interest 
ing  work. 

Ever  and  always, 

Your  loving  child, 

MARVEL. 

IV 

IT  was  eleven  o'clock  on  a  mid-April 
morning  —  she  never  in  after-life  for 
got  the  day  or  the  hour  —  that  Clar 
issa  Charleroy  saw  to  the  depths  of 
her  daughter's  mind. 

Clarissa  awoke  that  morning  with  a 
severe  neuralgia.  She  had  given  two 
parlor-talks  the  day  before,  and  was 
now  paying  the  penalty  of  overexer- 
tion.  To  lie  flat  was  sickening,  yet  to 
rise  was  impossible. 

Marvel  promptly  took  the  case  in 


i88     CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD 

hand.  The  pillows  were  piled  high ; 
one  hot-water  bag  was  slipped  under 
that  aching  spot  at  the  back  of  her 
neck,  and  another  placed  at  her  chilly 
feet.  Marvel  knew  that  a  hot  bag  must 
be  covered  with  linen ;  Marvel  knew 
that  an  alcohol  rub  changes  even  a 
neuralgic's  outlook.  Marvel  was  per 
fectly  familiar  with  the  latest  non-de 
pressant  remedy  for  neuralgia,  hunted 
up  the  empty  box,  telephoned  the 
druggist,  and  had  the  prescription 
filled  and  ready  to  administer  in  half 
an  hour;  when  she  left  the  room  it 
was  only  to  reappear  with  a  cretonne- 
and-mahogany  tray,  fresh  toast,  and 
weak  tea,  at  the  very  psychological  mo 
ment  when  the  thought  of  food  ceased 
to  be  a  horror. 

Under  these  ministrations,  what  had 
promised  to  be  an  all-day  siege  gave 
way  so  satisfactorily  that  by  eleven 


CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD     189 

o'clock  Clarissa,  arrayed  in  Marvel's 
blue  negligee,  was  temporarily  repos 
ing  on  the  lounge  in  the  living-room, 
while  her  own  room  was  airing.  She 
was  in  that  delicious,  drowsy,  yet  stim 
ulated,  state  which  follows  the  cessa 
tion  of  suffering. 

For  April,  the  day  was  unusually 
warm.  The  windows  were  open;  the 
sun  was  pouring  happily  in,  contend 
ing  in  gayety  with  a  great  jar  of  daf 
fodils  covering  the  low  table  at  Clar 
issa's  side.  Marvel  in  a  dull-blue  house 
dress,  white-braided,  sat  across  the 
room  darning  a  stocking,  with  an  ex 
pression  of  severity.  Mending  was 
one  of  the  domestic  duties  for  which 
she  had  little  taste.  Owing  to  her 
constant  activities  as  housekeeper 
and  secretary  for  Clarissa,  she  had  not 
yet  begun  to  attend  lectures  at  the 
University.  Her  mother,  I  fear,  was 


igo     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

serenely  blind  to  the  implications  of 
this  fact. 

Clarissa,  lying  high  among  pillows, 
in  the  peace  that  follows  pain,  regarded 
her  daughter  with  a  profound  pleasure. 
There  was  something  about  her — was 
it  the  length  of  curling  lashes  veiling 
her  eyes?  or  the  tendrils  of  fair  hair 
the  warm  wind  lifted  on  her  forehead? 
or  the  exquisite  color  that  came  and 
went  in  her  cheeks?  or  the  slender 
roundness  of  her  erect  young  body?  — 
there  was  a  something,  at  all  events,  a 
dearness,  an  interest,  a  charm,  unlike 
all  other  girls  of  twenty-three !  Not  for 
the  first  or  the  second,  but  for  the 
hundreth  time,  that  winter,  Clarissa 
was  conscious  of  an  unutterable  hun 
ger  for  the  years  she  had  foregone. 
She  seldom  looked  at  Marvel's  bloom 
without  remembering  that  she  had  no 
mental  picture  of  her  girlish  charm, 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     igi 

her  maiden  magic.  How  was  it  possi 
ble  to  grow  old  without  such  memories 
to  feed  her  withering  heart  upon  ? 

She  must  not  think  that  the  locust 
had  eaten  these  years!  The  thought 
pierced  her  like  a  knife,  and  she  put 
it  away  from  her  with  all  her  might. 
Had  she  not  chosen  the  better,  though 
more  barren,  part?  Had  she  not  fought 
a  good  fight  ?  And  for  this  hour,  at 
least,  she  was  happy. 

Leaving  Marvel's  face,  her  gaze 
traveled  round  the  room.  The  actual 
alterations  were  not  many,  yet  they 
had  produced  harmony.  The  apart 
ment  was  restful  now.  The  very  walls 
seemed  to  encompass  and  caress  her. 
Perhaps  it  was  only  just,  Clarissa  re 
flected,  that  a  woman  who  had  poured 
out  her  years  and  her  strength  in 
working  and  planning  for  an  obdurate 
world,  should  have,  when  her  energy 


ig2     CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD 

was  spent,  some  such  warm  and  tender 
shelter,  some  equable  spot  all  flowers 
and  sunshine,  wherein  she  might  be 
tended  as  Marvel  was  tending  her,  so 
that  she  might  gather  strength  to  go 
forth  to  other  battles. 

She  turned  her  eyes  again  upon  her 
daughter.  Marvel,  feeling  the  long 
look,  glanced  up. 

"  Are  you  comfy  ?  Is  there  anything 
more  you  want,  mother  ? "  the  girl  in 
quired. 

Clarissa  shook  her  head.  "  No,  no 
thing.  Really,  child,  you  are  an  excel 
lent  nurse.  Quite  a — quite  a  Marvel! 
Were  you  born  so?  Where  did  you 
get  it  ?  Not  from  Paul  or  me !  " 

Marvel  smiled  faintly  to  herself. 

"  Where  did  I  get  that  name  ? "  she 
parried.  "  I  have  often  wondered  about 
that.  Father  could  n't,  or  would  n't, 
tell  me." 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     193 

The  slow,  difficult  color  came  to 
Clarissa's  cheeks.  How  many  years 
since  she  had  recalled  the  naming  of 
her  daughter ! 

"  There  is  no  secret  about  it,"  she 
said.  "  When  the  nurse  first  laid  you 
on  my  arm,  I  saw  what  seemed  to  me 
such  a  wonder-child  that  I  said, '  Every 
baby  in  the  world  ought  to  be  named 
Marvel.  Mine  shall  be.' —  That 's  all. 
It  was  just  a  fancy.  Your  father  wanted 
to  name  you  Clarissa  Josephine. — 
Where  did  those  daffodils  come  from  ? 
Did  the  Herr  Professor  send  them?" 

Marvel  nodded  carelessly.  This  was 
so  common  a  matter  as  to  be  unde 
serving  of  comment. 

Clarissa  resumed  her  train  of 
thought.  What  tact  the  girl  had 
shown!  She  had  slipped  into  her 
mother's  life  easily.  At  the  beginning 
she  had  taken  her  little  stand,  assumed 


194     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

her  pose.  "  I  am  not  a  believer  in  your 
panaceas,"  her  manner  always,  and 
her  lips  once  or  twice,  had  said,  "  but 
nothing  human  is  alien  to  me.  Pray 
shatter  society  to  bits  and  remould  it 
nearer  to  the  heart's  desire  —  if  you 
can." 

Clarissa  saw  no  reason  why  Marvel 
should  not  remain  with  her.  A  couple 
of  legacies  had  increased  her  small  in 
come  to  the  point  where  she  might 
have  dispensed  with  her  irregular  and 
uncertain  earnings,  had  these  not  re 
presented  an  effort  that  was  the  essence 
of  life  to  her.  She  could  even  afford, 
for  a  time,  the  inconsistent  luxury  of 
an  idle  daughter ;  but  if  Marvel  desired 
to  exercise  her  teacher's  gift,  why  not 
do  so  in  Chicago  ? 

"How  comfortable  we  are!"  said 
Clarissa,  drowsily  and  happily.  "  That 
blue  dress  is  very  becoming  to  you, 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     195 

child.  I  believe  we  can't  do  better  than 
to  keep  this  flat  for  next  winter.  I 
wonder  if  we  could  n't  arrange  with 
Myra  Ann  to  come  back  in  the  fall  ? 
We  could  pay  her  half-wages  while  we 
were  out  of  town.  Her  cooking  seems 
to  agree  with  my  stomach  better  than 
I  dared  suppose  any  home  cooking 
could!" 

"  Why,  mother !  You  forget  I  am 
still  an  instructor-elect  at  Midwest.  I 
must  go  to  my  work  in  September." 

Clarissa  started  up  against  her  pil 
lows  and  spoke  with  her  usual  vehe 
mence  and  directness. 

"  I  do  not  wish  you  to  go  back  to 
Midwest,  Marvel.  I  want  you  to  stay 
with  me.  I  have  had  too  little  of  my 
daughter's  society  in  my  life." 

The  girl  dropped  her  work  and 
faced  her  mother.  "That,  mother,  is 
hardly  my  fault." 


ig6     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

Their  glances  met  and  crossed,  ra 
pier-like,  with  the  words.  Apprehension 
seized  Clarissa.  She  did  not  fathom 
the  meaning  of  Marvel's  gaze. 

"•Do  you  mean  it  is  my  fault,  Marvel?" 

Her  daughter  kept  silence.  For  al 
most  the  first  time  in  her  life,  the  older 
woman  felt  herself  compelled  to  valiant 
self-defense. 

"My  work  has  justified  itself,  Mar 
vel.  I  am  not  boasting  when  I  say  that 
I  truthfully  believe  the  good  day  of 
release  from  servitude  is  nearer  for  all 
women  because  I  had  the  courage  to 
leave  my  home  and  go  into  the  wil 
derness,  preaching  the  coming  of  the 
Woman's  Age  and  furthering,  even 
though  feebly,  all  the  good  causes  that 
will  help  it  on." 

Marvel  still  kept  silence.  She  knew 
so  many  things  to  say!  Was  it  not 
better  to  utter  none  of  them? 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     197 

"I  wanted,"  continued  Clarissa,  "to 
give  my  mite  toward  making  this  a 
better  world  for  girl-babies  like  you  to 
be  born  into." 

Her  face  wore  the  deep,  wistful  look 
that  marked  her  highest  moments; 
this  was  the  reason  upon  which  in  her 
secret  soul  she  relied  for  justification 
—  but  her  daughter  was  not  touched 
by  it  at  all ! 

"  Well,  Marvel  ?  " 

"  Really,  mother,"  said  the  girl 
crisply,  driven  to  make  answer,  "don't 
you  realize  that  you  would  never  have 
gone  in  for  Humanity  if  you  had  n't 
hated  cooking  ? " 

"  Why  cook  when  I  hated  it  ?"  Clar 
issa,  up-in-arms,  flashed  back. 

"  Why,  indeed  ?  —  but  why  drag  in 
Humanity?  And  why  should  I  give  up 
my  work  to  stay  here  ?  I  felt  I  ought 
to  come  —  for  a  while  —  when  you 


ig8     CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD 

asked  it.  I  could  see  that  father  and 
Evelyn  thought  I  ought.  But  now  that 
I  have  put  the  flat  in  shape  and  trained 
Myra  Ann,  —  she  wants  to  stay  with 
you,  by  the  way,  —  things  will  run 
smoothly.  I  can  come  up  occasionally 
to  see  how  it  goes." 

At  this  assumption  that  her  need  of 
her  child  was  purely  practical,  some 
thing,  some  tangible,  iron  thing,  seemed 
to  strike  Clarissa's  heart.  She  could 
feel  its  impact,  feel  the  distressful 
shudder  along  all  her  nerves,  the  ex 
plosion  in  her  palms.  She  looked  down 
at  them  curiously.  It  almost  seemed 
to  her  that  she  would  behold  them 
shattered  by  the  pain! 

She  turned  her  eyes  away  and  they 
fell  upon  the  bowl  of  daffodils.  Daffo 
dils  burning  in  an  April  sun.  In  what 
long-forgotten  hour  of  stress  had  she 
once  seen  the  flame  of  daffodils  burn 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     199 

bright  against  an  April  sun?  Slowly 
her  brain  made  the  association.  Ah, 
yes  !  That  day  she  told  Paul  she  would 
leave  him,  he  had  brought  her  daffo 
dils.— Had  Paulidt  like  this? 

Clarissa — Clarissa  who  had  never 

before  either  asked  or  given  quarter 

-heard   her  own  voice,  tense  with 

feeling,  say,  "  Marvel,  I  can't  let  you 

go,  not  yet!" 

"Why,  mother!  I  can't  stay  longer 
than  June.  Of  all  people  in  the  world, 
you  ought  to  admit  that  I  must  do  my 
work !  Of  course  I  know  you  need  a 
home  as  much  as  any  one,  though  you 
never  own  it.  That 's  why  you  have 
liked  to  have  me  here  this  winter  — 
because  I  could  help  you  make  one. 
You  none  of  you  know,  you  reformers! 
You  are  just  air-plants.  You  have  no 
roots." 

"  It  is  part  of  the  profession.  '  Foxes 


200    CLARISSA'S   OWN  CHILD 

have  holes  -  -  '  "  Clarissa  retorted, 
driven  to  her  last  defense. 

Marvel  lifted  her  head,  shocked  at 
the  implication. 

"  I  don't  believe  it  is  wrong  to  tell 
you  what  I  think,"  she  said  abruptly. 
"  You  ought  to  know  the  other  side, 
my  side.  Of  course  I  'm  only  a  girl 
still.  I  dare  say  there  is  a  great  deal  I 
do  not  understand.  But  I  do  know 
about  homes.  The  attitude  of  these 
people  you  admire  and  quote  does 
seem  to  me  so  ridiculous!  They  all 
admit  that  the  race  lives  for  the  child. 
But  they  say  —  and  you  follow  them 
— that  the  child  can  be  best  cared  for 
by  specialists,  and  the  house  can  be 
left  to  itself,  while  the  mothers  can, 
and  should,  go  out  and  hunt  up  some 
other  '  specialty.'  It  is  the  idea  of  a 
shirk !  Loving  a  child  is  a  profession 
in  itself.  You  have  to  give  your  mind 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     201 

and  soul  to  it.  I  tell  you  I  know.  / 
know  because  I  was  motherless  /  — 
Can't  you  see  that  everything  your 
specialists  can  do  for  the  child  is  use 
less  if  you  don't  give  it  what  it  wants 
and  needs  the  very  most  of  all  ?  Oh,  I 
think  some  grown-ups  were  born 
grown-up.  They  don't  seem  to  remem 
ber  ! " 

"  Remember  —  remember  what  ? " 
Clarissa  interjected  sharply. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  can  make  you 
understand.  It  is  such  a  simple,  ele 
mental  thing.  You  either  know  it,  or 
you  don't.  You  may  mother  chickens 
in  a  brooder,  but  you  must  mother 
children  in  your  arms.  After  you  left, 
mother,  for  four  mortal  years  I  was 
the  most  miserable  scrap  on  earth.  I 
was  fed  and  clothed  and  taught  and 
cared  for.  I  was  petted,  too,  —  but  it 
was  never  right.  All  the  while  I  felt 


202     CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

myself  alone.  Aunt  Josephine  did  n't 
count ;  even  father  did  n't,  then.  I 
could  not  sleep  for  loneliness,  and  I 
used  to  wake  far  in  the  night,  my  eyes 
all  wet  with  tears.  I  had  been  crying  in 
my  sleep.  The  universe  felt  desolate 
and  vacant.  Just  one  little  girl  alone  in 
it!  There  was  such  a  weight  at  my 
heart !  I  would  cry  and  cry.  It  was 
an  awful,  constant  hunger  for  the 
mother  that  I  did  n't  have.  So  —  I 
know  how  it  is  with  all  children.  Their 
hearts  must  be  fed ! " 

Clarissa  listened,  astounded. 

The  girl  stood  now  at  the  open  win 
dow,  breathing  in  the  soft  spring  air  in 
long-drawn,  tremulous  breaths.  The 
excitement  of  speech  was  upon  her. 
Her  eyes  were  liquid,  wonderful.  And 
never,  in  all  her  life,  had  she  looked 
so  like  the  woman  who  watched  her 
breathlessly. 


CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD     203 

"  These  are  such  big  things,"  she 
went  on,  "  I  hardly  know  how  to  talk 
about  them.  But  I  have  thought  a 
great  deal.  I  know  the  world  must  be 
made  better,  and  every  one  must  do  his 
share.  But,  mother,  you  can't  save  the 
world  in  platoons.  Even  Christ  had 
but  twelve  disciples.  I  'm  not  denying 
that  thousands  of  women  must  work 
outside  the  home;  I  'm  not  denying 
that  hundreds  may  be  specially  called 
to  do  work  in  and  for  the  world.  But 
the  mothers  are  not  called.  They  must 
not  go,  unless  want  drives.  They 
have  the  homes  to  make — the  part 
of  the  homes  that  is  atmosphere.  Oh, 
don't  you  know  what  I  mean  ?  The 
women  who  understand  can  make  a 
home  in  a  boarding-house  or  in  foreign 
lodgings ;  in  a  camp  on  the  desert  or 
in  an  eyrie  in  the  mountains.  It 's  the 
feel  of  it !  Don't  you  understand  it  at 


204    CLARISSA'S   OWN   CHILD 

all,  —  the  warm,  comforted,  easeful  feel 
ing  that  encompasses  you  when  you 
come  in  the  door,  or  raise  the  tent- 
flap  ?  Home  is  the  thing  that  nourishes, 
that  cherishes,  that  puts  its  arms  about 
you  and  says,  '  Rest  here  ! ' 

"I  know  —  for  father  and  Evelyn 
made  a  home  for  me.  Father  is  like  me. 
He  is  lost,  shipwrecked,  ruined,  if  his 
heart  is  n't  sheltered.  I  don't  know 
what  I  think  about  divorces  and  re 
marriages.  It  is  all  so  perplexing.  I  do 
not  know  at  all.  But  I  know  you 
broke  up  a  home,  and  Evelyn  made 
one.  Whatever  people  do,  if  they  can 
do  that  for  a  child  as  father  and  Evelyn 
did  it  for  me,  I  should  n't  wonder 
if  they  are  justified  before  gods  and 
men!" 

The  rapid  sentences  fell  like  ham 
mer-strokes  upon  Clarissa's  naked 
heart.  She  felt  that  she  ought  to  be 


CLARISSA'S   OWN   CHILD    205 

defending  her  beliefs,  but  she  could  not 
take  her  eyes  from  Marvel's  glowing 
face,  and  the  girl  went  swiftly  on  :  — 
"  The  people  that  you  follow  —  they 
admit  the  race  lives  for  the  child,  that 
the  mother  must  risk  her  life  to  give  it 
life.  Then,  they  seem  to  think,  the 
sacrifice  can  cease.  But  if  you  know 
about  homes,  you  know  better.  As  she 
gives  her  body  to  be  the  matrix  of 
another  body,  so  she  must  give  her 
spirit  to  make  a  shelter  that  shall  be 
the  matrix  of  another  spirit.  If  she 
refuses  to  do  this,  she  fails,  and  all  her 
labor  is  in  vain.  It  is  verysimple.  As  I 
see  the  world,  the  mothers  must  die 
daily  all  their  lives.  There  is  no  other 
way.  It  is  a  part  of  life,  just  as  bear 
ing  and  birth  are  parts  of  life.  No 
one  denies  that  they  are  hard  —  hard 
—  hard.  But  that  is  the  glory  of  it! 
Nothing  is  worth  while  that  lacks  the 


206    CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

labor  and  the  danger,  the  pain  and 
the  difficulty!" 

For  once  in  her  life  Clarissa  was 
speechless.  Words  would  not  come. 
The  inherited  weapon  of  her  own  flu 
ency  had  been  turned  against  herself. 
For  as  other  women  had  been  shaken 
from  their  old  faiths  and  allegiances  by 
Clarissa's  gift  of  tongues,  even  so  had 
she  been  shaken  by  her  child.  The 
girl's  young  cogency  had  struck  her 
dumb. 

In  the  long  minutes  of  silence  that 
followed,  Clarissa  was,  perhaps,  more 
truly  a  mother  than  she  had  been  since 
Marvel  first  lay  in  the  circle  of  her  arm. 
She  saw  a  daughter's  point  of  view  at 
last.  She  knew  which  proclaimed  the 
deeper  doctrine,  which  was  the  truer 
prophet  of  humanity,  her  child  or 
she. 

Yet  when  she  spoke  at  last,  it  was 


CLARISSA'S   OWN   CHILD    207 

not  to  discourse  of  Humanity.  Hu 
manity  was  forgotten ;  she  and  her  child 
were  all.  Her  lips  shaped,  unbidden, 
that  old,  old  demand  of  the  hungry 
heart. 

"  Marvel  —  don't  you  love  me  at 
all?" 

Marvel  hesitated.  Her  air  of  detach 
ment  was  complete. 

"  You  never  tried  to  make  me  love 
you,  mother.  Even  love  goes  by  a  kind 
of  logic.  Domestic  life  gives  you  one 
kind  of  reward;  public  life  another 
kind.  You  get  the  kind  you  choose, 
I  take  it,  and  no  other.  If  you  want 
love,  you  must  choose  the  love-bring 
ing  kind,"  said  this  austere  young 
judge.  "And  I've  found  out  another 
thing  by  myself.  You  love  ten  times 
as  much  when  you  have  served  with 
hands  and  feet  as  well  as  brain.  I  do 
not  know  why.  I  only  know  you  do. 


ao8     CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD 

If  —  if  I  love  you  at  all,  mother,  it 
is  because  of  the  work  I  have  done 
for  you  here  —  in  making  it  like 
home!" 

Clarissa  bowed  her  head  on  her 
hands,  in  a  bitterness  made  absolute. 
This  child  of  hers  was  her  own  child. 
What  right,  indeed,  had  she  to  expect 
self-sacrifice,  tenderness,  cherishing, 
from  the  flesh  of  her  flesh  ?  That  which 
she  had  given  was  rendered  unto  her 
again  in  overflowing  measure,  and  be 
holding  she  saw  that  it  was  just. 

Marvel,  standing  at  the  window  in 
the  sunshine,  a  little  excited  by  her 
own  eloquence  and  wondering  at  it 
still,  had  no  conception  of  the  havoc 
she  had  worked.  Indeed,  she  was  inno 
cent  of  the  knowledge  that  any  one, 
least  of  all  herself,  had  the  power  to 
move  her  mother  greatly.  She  as 
sumed,  after  the  careless  fashion  of 


CLARISSA'S   OWN   CHILD     209 

youth,  that  her  elders  were  indifferent 
and  unemotional.  Suddenly,  she  heard 
an  unfamiliar  and  terrifying  sound. 
Her  mother  was  sobbing  with  harsh, 
rending  sobs,  tearless  and  terrible. 

Marvel  turned  in  quick  alarm  and 
stood  confused  before  this  anguish  of 
her  own  inflicting.  Clarissa's  very  soul 
seemed  sobbing,  and  her  daughter  did 
not  know  how  to  bear  the  sound. 

The  girl  wrung  her  hands  helplessly. 
Something  struck  her  heart  and  quiv 
ered  down  her  nerves.  Then,  as  she 
watched  this  woman,  so  like,  yet  so 
unlike  herself,  all  at  once  —  she  under 
stood  !  She  was  suffering  with  every 
painful  breath  her  mother  drew.  In 
the  heart  of  her  heart  she  felt  them. 
They  two  were  bound  together  there. 
It  was  even  as  Evelyn  had  told  her, — 
Evelyn,  the  beloved,  whose  truth  had 
never  failed  her  yet !  The  primal  tie 


2io    CLARISSA'S   OWN    CHILD 

that  draws  God  to  his  worlds  still 
holds  the  woman  and  her  child.  It  was 
a  wonder  and  a  miracle  unspeakable 
—  but  it  was  true.  Throbbing  and 
palpable,  she  felt  the  tie. 

It  was  as  if  her  eyelids  were  anointed, 
and  all  the  deep  and  secret  things  of 
life  lay  clear.  Ah,  she  had  not  known 
the  half  before !  How  shallow  and  com 
placent  she  must  have  seemed !  She 
dropped  on  her  knees  beside  the 
lounge.  No  eloquence  now !  She  stam 
mered  commonplace  words  eagerly, 
pitifully. 

"Mother  dear!  Mother,  I  didn't 
mean  to  hurt  you  so !  I  did  n't  know. 
I  did  n't  know!  Don't  cry!  O  mother 
dear,  dorit  cry  /  " 

Clarissa  lifted  a  drawn,  woeful  face, 
and  looked  straight  into  her  daughter's 
eyes.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  she  saw 
there  of  wonder  and  newborn  tender- 


CLARISSA'S    OWN    CHILD     211 

ness.  But  she  drank  of  that  look  thirst 
ily,  as  might  one  who  had  found 
springs  of  living  water  after  a  desert 
drought. 

Her  own  child's  hand  had  struck 
her  down.  Yet,  in  her  overthrow,  she 
read  in  Marvel's  face  the  sign  all 
mothers  seek.  Ungentle  and  unmerc 
iful  the  girl  had  been,  yet  gentler  and 
more  merciful  than  she !  And  by  that 
token  she  knew  her  life  not  wasted 
utterly.  For  she  had  given  to  this 
world  —  this  piteous  world  for  which 
she  had  labored  clumsily  and  ineffect 
ually  in  alien  ways  —  the  best  thing 
that  the  woman  has  to  give.  Offspring 
a  little  better  than  herself  she  gave  to 
it.  This  child  of  hers,  just  now  so  hard, 
yet  now  become  so  pitiful,  was  her 
own  child — and  more.  Of  her  flesh 
and  of  her  spirit  had  been  wrought  a 
finer  thing  than  she. 


die  ffitoertfibe 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .   S    .   A 


CHRISTOPHER 


By  Richard  Pryce 


"A  refreshing  book  for  the  reader  who  knows  and 
loves  human  nature,  who  delights  in  the  quiet  realities 
of  life."  —  Chicago  Record- Herald. 

"  The  charm  of  the  story  and  the  leisureliness  of  its 
narration  remind  one  of  De  Morgan's  'Joseph  Vance/ 
or  Locke's  'The  Beloved  Vagabond.'  There  is  enjoy 
ment  on  every  page."  — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  He  can  draw  characters  —  aristocratic  old  ladies, 
maiden  ladies  and  ladies'  maids  —  which  are  unforget 
table,  and  he  describes  houses  and  rooms  so  incisively 
that  the  reader  can  share  them  with  their  occupants." 

—  London  Punch. 

"  Full  of  quality,  leisure,  and  the  possibility  of  keen 
yet  unhurried  enjoyment."  -Life. 

"  A  brilliant  piece  of  work,  full  of  ripeness  and  an 
understanding  of  the  richness  of  life." — N.  Y.  Even 
ing  Sun. 

Crown  8vo.     $1.35  net.     Postage  12  cents 


HOUGHTON  7§*S.  BOSTON 

MIFFLIN  <LsS  AND 

COMPANY  MS  NEW  YORK 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 

An  Episode  in  the  Life  of  a  Young  Man 

By  HARRY  JAMES  SMITH 

"  An  absorbing,  dramatic,  and  sweet  story  ...  a  pro 
blem  novel — with  a  solution."  —  New  York  Times. 

"  One  of  the  strongest  American  novels  that  has  ap 
peared  in  several  seasons.  .  .  .  The  whole  story  is  on 
a  far  higher  plane  than  the  ordinary  novel  of  Ameri 
can  life.  The  main  characters  are  real,  but  they  are 
touched  with  the  fire  of  the  spirit." — San  Francisco 
Chronicle. 

"It  has  a  strong  vein  of  sentiment,  a  flexible  and 
kindly  humor,  a  plot  directly  concerned  with  a  pair  of 
young  lovers,  and  a  vigorous  style."  —  The  Nation. 

"  That  it  will  be  a  favorite  seems  to  us  a  safe  predic 
tion.  .  .  .  There  is  no  part  of  it  which,  once  begun,  is 
likely  to  be  left  unread."  —  The  Dial. 

i2mo,  $1.20  net.     Postage  12  cents. 


HOUGHTON  AN&.  BOSTON 

MIFFLIN  /^C.  AND 

COMPANY  TONE)  NEW  YORK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


A    000918811     1 


daltl 


